3   1822  01300  8099 


An  'lAjTic" 
Philosopher 


« 


3   1822  0 


iilllli 

300  8099 


An  "Attic"  Philosopher 

(t/n  ^hilosophe  sons  Us  ToHs) 

By  EMILE   Sf>UVE:STRE 


Crowned   by    the    French    Academy 


i.,.. 


[From  a  PortraUin  Ihe  Blbli6thequc  miionate.    Paris.] 


NEW    YORk 

Current  Literature  Pub!  shlnsC 
1910 


An  ** Attic''  Philosopher 

{Un  T^hilosophe  sous  les  Toils) 

By  EMILE   SOUVESTRE 

Crowned    by    the    French    Academy 


With  a  Preface  by  JOSEPH  BER- 
TRAND,   of  the  French  Academy 


NEW    YORK 

Current  Literature  Publishing  Company 

1910 


Copyright  1905 

nv 

ROBERT   ARNOT 

Copyright  1910 

BY 

CURRENT  LITERATURE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 


'O  one  succeeds  in  obtaining  a  promi- 
nent place  in  literature,  or  in  surround- 
ing himself  with  a  faithful  and  steady 
circle  of  admirers  drawn  from  the 
fickle  masses  of  the  public,  unless  he 
possesses  originality,  constant  variety, 
and  a  distinct  personality.  It  is  quite 
possible  to  gain  for  a  moment  a  few 
readers  by  imitating  some  original  feature  in  another; 
but  these  soon  vanish  and  the  writer  remains  alone  and 
forgotten.  Others,  again,  without  belonging  to  any 
distinct  group  of  authors,  having  found  their  standard  in 
themselves,  moralists  and  educators  at  the  same  time, 
have  obtained  undying  recognition. 

Of  the  latter  class,  though  little  known  outside  of 
France,  is  Emile  Souvestre,  who  was  born  in  Morlaix, 
April  15,  1806,  and  died  at  Paris  July  5,  1854.  He  was 
the  son  of  a  civil  engineer,  was  educated  at  the  college 
of  Pontivy,  and  intended  to  follow  his  father's  career  by 
entering  the  Polytechnic  School.  His  father,  however, 
died  in  1823,  and  Souvestre  matriculated  as  a  law-stu- 
dent at  Rennes.  But  the  young  student  soon  devoted 
himself  entirely  to  literature.  His  first  essay,  a  tragedy, 
Le  Siege  de  Missolonghi  (1828),  was  a  pronounced  fail- 
ure.   Disheartened  and  disgusted  he  left  Paris  and 

[V] 


INTRODUCTION 

established  himself  first  as  a  lawyer  in  Morlaix.  Then 
he  became  proprietor  of  a  newspaper,  and  was  after- 
ward appointed  a  professor  in  Brest  and  in  Mulhouse. 
In  1836  he  contributed  to  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes 
some  sketches  of  life  in  Brittany,  which  obtained  a  bril- 
liant success.  Souvestre  was  soon  made  editor  of  La 
Revue  de  Paris,  and  in  consequence  early  found  a  pub- 
lisher for  his  first  novel,  UEchelle  de  Femmes,  which,. as 
was  the  case  with  his  second  work,  Riche  et  Pauvre,  met 
with  a  very  favorable  reception.  His  reputation  was 
now  made,  and  between  this  period  and  his  death  he 
gave  to  France  about  sixty  volumes — tales,  novels, 
essays,  history,  and  drama. 

A  double  purpose  was  always  very  conspicuous  in  his 
books:  he  aspired  to  the  role  of  a  moralist  and  educator, 
and  was  likewise  a  most  impressive  painter  of  the  life, 
character,  and  morals  of  the  inhabitants  of  Brittany. 

The  most  significant  of  his  books  are  perhaps  Les 
Dernier s  Bretons  (183 5- 183 7,  4  vols.),  Pierre  Landais 
(1843,  2  vols.),  Le  Foyer  Breton  (1844,  2  vols.),  Un  Phil- 
osophe  sous  les  Toits,  crowned  by  the  Academy  (1850), 
Conjessions  d^un  Ouvrier  (185 1),  Recits  et  Souvenirs 
(1853),  Souvenirs  d'un  Vieillard  (1854);  also  La 
Bretagne  Pittoresque  (1845),  ^^^^  finally,  Causeries  His- 
toriques  et  Litteraires  (1854,  2  vols.).  His  comedies  de- 
serve honorable  mention :  Henri  Hamelin,  UOncle  Bap- 
iiste  (1842),  La  Parisienne,  Le  Mousse,  etc.  In  1848, 
Souvestre  was  appointed  professor  of  the  newly  created 
school  of  administration,  mostly  devoted  to  popular  lec- 
tures. He  held  this  post  till  1853,  lecturing  partly  in 
Paris,  partly  in  Switzerland. 

[vi] 


INTRODUCTION 

His  death,  when  comparatively  young,  left  a  dis- 
tinct gap  in  the  literary  world.  A  life  like  his  could 
not  be  extinguished  without  general  sorrow.  Although 
he  was  unduly  modest,  and  never  aspired  to  the  role  of 
a  beacon-light  in  literature,  always  seeking  to  remain  in 
obscurity,  the  works  of  Emile  Souvestre  must  be  placed 
in  the  first  rank  by  their  morality  and  by  their  instructive 
character.  They  will  always  command  the  entire  re- 
spect and  applause  of  mankind.  And  thus  it  happens 
that,  lil^e  many  others,  he  was  only  fully  appreciated 
after  his  death. 

Even  those  of  his  conjreres  who  did  not  seem  to  esteem 
him,  when  alive,  suddenly  found  out  that  they  had 
experienced  a  great  loss  in  his  demise.  They  expressed 
it  in  emotional  panegyrics;  contemporaneous  literature 
discovered  that  virtue  had  flown  from  its  bosom,  and 
the  French  Academy,  which  had  at  its  proper  time 
crowned  his  Pliilosophe  sous  les  Toils  as  a  work  con- 
tributing supremely  to  morals,  kept  his  memory  green  by 
bestowing  on  his  widow  the  '  Prix  Lambert,"  designed 
for  the  "families  of  authors  who  by  their  integrity,  and 
by  the  probity  of  their  efforts  have  well  deserved  this 
token  from  the  Republique  des  Lettres.'' 


de  I'Acad^mie  Frangaise. 


[vii] 


CONTENTS 

AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 
CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

New- Year's  Gifts i 

CHAPTER  II 
The  Carnival ii 

CHAPTER  m 

What  we  may  Learn  by  Looking  out  of  Window       .     23 

CHAPTER  IV 
Let  us  Love  One  Another 34 

CHAPTER  V 
Compensation 46 

CHAPTER  VI 
Uncle  Maurice 59 

CHAPTER  VII 
The  Price  of  Power  and  the  Worth  of  Fame      .     .     74 

CHAPTER  VIII 
Misanthropy  and  Repentance 90 

CHAPTER  IX 
The  Family  of  Michael  Arout 102 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  X 

PAGE 

Our  Country .118 

CHAPTER  XI 
Moral  Use  of  Inventories 136 

CHAPTER  XII 
The  End  of  the  Year 155 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

CHAPTER  I 
A  Child  of  the  Faubourgs 173 

CHAPTER  II 
The  Little  Silver  Cross 179 

CHAPTER  III 
Widow  and  Orphan 183 

CHAPTER  IV 
Holy  Monday 188 

CHAPTER  V 
Mother  Madeleine 198 

CHAPTER  VI 
The  Enemy  Strikes 211 

CHAPTER  VII 
The  Great  Contractor 223 

[x] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  VIII 

PAGE 

The  Mother's  Last  Gift 231 

CHAPTER  IX 
Sudden  Misfortune 237 

CHAPTER  X 
Uphill  Work 249 

CHAPTER  XI 
Friend  Mauricet's  Trouble 261 

CHAPTER  XII 
At  Montmorency 273 

CHAPTER  XIII 
Prosperous  Years 286 

CHAPTER  XIV 
When  Age  Steals  On 303 


[  xi  J 


AN 

'ATTIC  '  PHILOSOPHER 

CHAPTER  I 

new-year's  gifts 

January  ist 

;^HE  day  of  the  month  came  into  my 
mind  as  soon  as  I  awoke.  Another 
year. is  separated  from  the  chain  of 
ages,  and  drops  into  the  gulf  of  the 
past!  The  crowd  hasten  to  welcome 
her  young  sister.  But  while  all  looks 
are  turned  toward  the  future,  mine 
revert  to  the  past.  Everyone  smiles 
upon  the  new  queen;  but,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  think 
of  her  whom  time  has  just  wrapped  in  her  winding- 
sheet.  The  past  year! — at  least  I  know  what  she 
was,  and  what  she  has  given  me ;  while  this  one  comes 
surrounded  by  all  the  forebodings  of  the  unknown. 
What  does  she  hide  in  the  clouds  that  mantle  her  ?  Is 
it  the  storm  or  the  sunshine  ?  Just  now  it  rains,  and 
I  feel  my  mind  as  gloomy  as  the  sky.  I  have  a  holiday 
to-day;  but  what  can  one  do  on  a  rainy  day?  I  walk 
up  and  down  my  attic  out  of  temper,  and  I  determine  to 
light  my  fire. 

I  [I] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

Unfortunately  the  matches  are  bad,  the  chimney 
smokes,  the  wood  goes  out !  I  throw  down  my  bellows 
in  disgust,  and  sink  into  my  old  armchair. 

In  truth,  why  should  I  rejoice  to  see  the  birth  of  a  new 
year?  All  those  who  are  already  in  the  streets,  with 
holiday  looks  and  smiling  faces — do  they  understand 
what  makes  them  so  gay?  Do  they  even  know  what 
is  the  meaning  of  this  holiday,  or  whence  comes  the 
custom  of  New- Year's  gifts  ? 

Here  my  mind  pauses  to  prove  to  itself  its  superiority 
over  that  of  the  vulgar.  I  make  a  parenthesis  in  my 
ill-temper  in  favor  of  my  vanity,  and  I  bring  together 
all  the  evidence  which  my  knowledge  can  produce. 

(The  old  Romans  divided  the  year  into  ten  months 
only;  it  was  Numa  Pompilius  who  added  January  and 
February.  The  former  took  its  name  from  Janus,  to 
whom  it  was  dedicated.  As  it  opened  the  new  year, 
they  surrounded  its  beginning  with  good  omens,  and 
thence  came  the  custom  of  visits  between  neighbors, 
of  wishing  happiness,  and  of  New- Year's  gifts.  The 
presents  given  by  the  Romans  were  symbolic.  They 
consisted  of  dry  figs,  dates,  honeycomb,  as  emblems  of 
"the  sweetness  of  the  auspices  under  which  the  year 
should  begin  its  course,"  and  a  small  piece  of  money 
called  slips,  which  foreboded  riches.) 

Here  I  close  the  parenthesis,  and  return  to  my  ill- 
humor.  The  little  speech*  I  have  just  addressed  to 
myself  has  restored  me  my  self-satisfaction,  but  made 
me  more  dissatisfied  with  others.  I  could  now  enjoy 
my  breakfast;  but  the  portress  has  forgotten  my  morn- 

*  Spitch,  in  the  original. 
[2] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

ing's  milk,  and  the  pot  of  preserves  is  empty!  Anyone 
else  would  have  been  vexed :  as  for  me,  I  affect  the  most 
supreme  indifference.  There  remains  a  hard  crust, 
which  I  break  by  main  strength,  and  which  I  carelessly 
nibble,  as  a  man  far  above  the  vanities  of  the  world  and 
of  fresh  rolls. 

However,  I  do  not  know  why  my  thoughts  should 
grow  more  gloomy  by  reason  of  the  difficulties  of  masti- 
cation. I  once  read  the  story  of  an  Englishman  who 
hanged  himself  because  they  had  brought  him  his  tea 
without  sugar.  There  are  hours  in  life  when  the  most 
trifling  cross  takes  the  form  of  a  calamity.  Our  tempers 
are  like  an  opera-glass,  which  makes  the  object  small 
or  great  according  to  the  end  you  look  through. 

Usually,  the  prospect  that  opens  out  before  my 
window  delights  me.  It  is  a  mountain-range  of  roofs, 
with  ridges  crossing,  interlacing,  and  piled  on  one  an- 
other, and  upon  which  tall  chimneys  raise  their  peaks. 
It  was  but  yesterday  that  they  had  an  Alpine  aspect  to 
me,  and  I  waited  for  the  first  snowstorm  to  see  glaciers 
among  them;  to-day,  I  only  see  tiles  and  stone  flues. 
The  pigeons,  which  assisted  my  rural  illusions,  seem  no 
more  than  miserable  birds  which  have  mistaken  the 
roof  for  the  back  yard;  the  smoke,  which  rises  in  light 
clouds,  instead  of  making  me  dream  of  the  panting  of 
Vesuvius,  reminds  me  of  kitchen  preparations  and  dish- 
water; and  lastly,  the  telegraph,  that  I  see  far  off  on  the 
old  tower  of  Montmartre,  has  the  effect  of  a  vile  gal- 
lows stretching  its  arms  over  the  city. 

My  eyes,  thus  hurt  by  all  they  meet,  fall  upon  the 
great  man's  house  which  faces  my  attic. 

[3] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

The  influence  of  New- Year's  Day  is  visible  there. 
The  servants  have  an  air  of  eagerness  proportioned  to 
the  value  of  their  New- Year's  gifts,  received  or  expected. 
I  see  the  master  of  the  house  crossing  the  court  with  the 
morose  look  of  a  man  who  is  forced  to  be  generous;  and 
the  visitors  increase,  followed  by  shop  porters  who  carry 
flowers,  bandboxes,  or  toys.  Suddenly  the  great  gates 
are  opened,  and  a  new  carriage,  drawn  by  thorough- 
bred horses,  draws  up  before  the  doorsteps.  They  are, 
without  doubt,  the  New- Year's  gift  presented  to  the 
mistress  of  the  house  by  her  husband;  for  she  comes 
herself  to  look  at  the  new  equipage.  Very  soon  she 
gets  into  it  with  a  little  girl,  all  streaming  with  laces, 
feathers  and  velvets,  and  loaded  with  parcels  which  she 
goes  to  distribute  as  New- Year's  gifts.  The  door  is 
shut,  the  windows  are  drawn  up,  the  carriage  sets  off. 

Thus  all  the  world  are  exchanging  good  wishes  and 
presents  to-day.  I  alone  have  nothing  to  give  or  to  re- 
ceive. Poor  Solitary!  I  do  not  even  know  one  chosen 
being  for  whom  I  might  offer  a  prayer. 

Then  let  my  wishes  for  a  happy  New  Year  go  and 
seek  out  all  my  unknown  friends — lost  in  the  multi- 
tude which  murmurs  like  the  ocean  at  my  feet! 

To  you  first,  hermits  in  cities,  for  whom  death  and 
poverty  have  created  a  solitude  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd ! 
unhappy  laborers,  who  are  condemned  to  toil  in  melan- 
choly, and  eat  your  daily  bread  in  silence  and  desertion, 
and  whom  God  has  withdrawn  from  the  intoxicating 
pangs  of  love  and  friendship! 

To  you,  fond  dreamers,  who  pass  through  life  with 
your  eyes  turned  toward  some  polar  star,  while  you 

[4] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

tread  with  indiflference  over  the  rich  harvests  of 
reahty ! 

To  you,  honest  fathers,  who  lengthen  out  the  evening 
to  maintain  your  famihes!  to  you,  poor  widows,  weep- 
ing and  working  by  a  cradle!  to  you,  young  men,  reso- 
lutely set  to  open  for  yourselves  a  path  in  life,  large 
enough  to  lead  through  it  the  wife  of  your  choice !  to 
you,  all  brave  soldiers  of  work  and  of  self-sacrifice ! 

To  you,  lastly,  whatever  your  title  and  your  name, 
who  love  good,  who  pity  the  sufiFering;  who  walk  through 
the  world  like  the  symbolical  Virgin  of  Byzantium,  with 
both  arms  open  to  the  human  race ! 

Here  I  am  suddenly  interrupted  by  loud  and  in- 
creasing chirpings.  I  look  about  me :  my  window  is  sur- 
rounded with  sparrows  picking  up  the  crumbs  of  bread 
which  in  my  brown  study  I  had  just  scattered  on  the 
roof.  At  this  sight  a  flash  of  light  broke  upon  my  sad- 
dened heart.  I  deceived  myself  just  now,  when  I  com- 
plained that  I  had  nothing  to  give:  thanks  to  me,  the 
sparrows  of  this  part  of  the  town  will  have  their  New- 
Year's  gifts! 

Twelve  o^ clock. — A  knock  at  my  door;  a  poor  girl 
comes  in,  and  greets  me  by  name.  At  first  I  do  not 
recollect  her;  but  she  looks  at  me,  and  smiles.  Ah! 
it  is  Paulette!  But  it  is  almost  a  year  since  I  have  seen 
her,  and  Paulette  is  no  longer  the  same:  the  other  day 
she  was  a  child,  now  she  is  almost  a  young  woman. 

Paulette  is  thin,  pale,  and  miserably  clad;  but  she  has 
always  the  same  open  and  straightforward  look — the 
same  mouth,  smiling  at  every  word,  as  if  to  court  your 
sympathy — the  same  voice,  somewhat  timid,  yet  ex- 

[5] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

pressing  fondness.  Paulette  is  not  pretty — she  is  even 
thought  plain;  as  for  me,  I  think  her  charming.  Per- 
haps that  is  not  on  her  account,  but  on  my  own.  Pau- 
lette appears  to  me  as  one  of  my  happiest  recollec- 
tions. 

It  was  the  evening  of  a  public  holiday.  Our  principal 
buildings  were  illuminated  with  festoons  of  fire,  a  thou- 
sand flags  waved  in  the  night  winds,  and  the  fireworks 
had  just  shot  forth  their  spouts  of  flame  into  the  midst 
of  the  Champ  de  Mars.  Suddenly,  one  of  those  unac- 
countable alarms  which  strike  a  multitude  with  panic 
fell  upon  the  dense  crowd:  they  cry  out,  they  rush 
on  headlong;  the  weaker  ones  fall,  and  the  frightened 
crowd  tramples  them  down  in  its  convulsive  struggles. 
I  escaped  from  the  confusion  by  a  miracle,  and  was 
hastening  away,  when  the  cries  of  a  perishing  child  ar- 
rested me:  I  reentered  that  human  chaos,  and,  after 
unheard-of  exertions,  I  brought  Paulette  out  of  it  at 
the  peril  of 'my  life. 

That  was  two  years  ago :  since  then  I  had  not  seen  the 
child  again  but  at  long  intervals,  and  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten her;  but  Paulette's  memory  was  that  of  a  grateful 
heart,  and  she  came  at  the  beginning  of  the  year  to  offer 
me  her  wishes  for  my  happiness.  She  brought  me,  be- 
sides, a  wallflower  in  full  bloom;  she  herself  had  planted 
and  reared  it :  it  was  something  that  belonged  wholly  to 
herself;  for  it  was  by  her  care,  her  perseverance,  and 
her  patience,  that  she  had  obtained  it. 

The  wallflower  had  grown  in  a  common  pot;  but 
Paulette,  who  is  a  bandbox-maker,  had  put  it  into  a  case 
of  varnished  payer,  ornamented  with  arabesques.  These 

[6] 


AN  ''ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

might  have  been  in  better  taste,  but  I  did  not  feel  the 
attention  and  good-will  the  less. 

This  unexpected  present,  the  little  girl's  modest 
blushes,  the  compliments  she  stammered  out,  dispelled, 
as  by  a  sunbeam,  the  kind  of  mist  which  had  gathered 
round  my  mind;  my  thoughts  suddenly  changed  from 
the  leaden  tints  of  evening  to  the  brightest  colors  of 
dawn.  I  made  Paulette  sit  down,  and  questioned  her 
with  a  light  heart. 

At  first  the  little  girl  replied  in  monosyllables;  but 
very  soon  the  tables  were  turned,  and  it  was  I  who  in- 
terrupted with  short  interjections  her  long  and  confi- 
dential talk.  The  poor  child  leads  a  hard  life.  She 
was  left  an  orphan  long  since,  with  a  brother  and  sister, 
and  lives  with  an  old  grandmother,  who  has  "brought 
them  up  to  poverty,"  as  she  always  calls  it. 

However,  Paulette  now  helps  her  to  make  band- 
boxes, her  little  sister  Perrine  begins  to  use  the  needle, 
and  her  brother  Henry  is  apprentice  to  a  printer.  All 
would  go  well  if  it  were  not  for  losses  and  want  of  work 
— if  it  were  not  for  clothes  which  wear  out,  for  appetites 
which  grow  larger,  and  for  the  winter,  when  you  cannot 
get  sunshine  for  nothing.  Paulette  complains  that  her 
candles  go  too  quickly,  and  that  her  wood  costs  too 
much.  The  fireplace  in  their  garret  is  so  large  that  a 
fagot  makes  no  more  show  in  it  than  a  match;  it  is  so 
near  the  roof  that  the  wind  blows  the  rain  down  it,  and 
in  winter  it  hails  upon  the  hearth ;  so  they  have  left  off 
using  it.  Henceforth  they  must  be  content  with  an 
earthen  chafing-dish,  upon  which  they  cook  their  meals. 
The  grandmother  had  often  spoken  of  a  stove  that  was 

[7] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

for  sale  at  the  broker's  close  by;  but  he  asked  seven 
francs  for  it,  and  the  times  are  too  hard  for  such  an  ex- 
pense: the  family,  therefore,  resign  themselves  to  cold 
for  economy ! 

As  Paulette  spoke,  I  felt  more  and  more  that  I  was 
losing  my  fretfulness  and  low  spirits.  The  first  dis- 
closures of  the  little  bandbox-maker  created  within  me 
a  wish  that  soon  became  a  plan.  I  questioned  her  about 
her  daily  occupations,  and  she  informed  me  that  on 
leaving  me  she  must  go,  with  her  brother,  her  sister,  and 
grandmother,  to  the  different  people  for  whom  they 
work.  My  plan  was  immediately  settled.  I  told  the 
child  that  I  would  go  to  see  her  in  the  evening,  and  I 
sent  her  away  with  fresh  thanks. 

I  placed  the  wallflower  in  the  open  window,  where  a 
ray  of  sunshine  bid  it  welcome;  the  birds  were  singing 
around,  the  sky  had  cleared  up,  and  the  day,  which  be- 
gan so  loweringly,  had  become  bright.  I  sang  as  I 
moved  about  my  room,  and,  having  hastily  put  on  my 
hat  and  coat,  I  went  out. 

Three  o'' clock. — All  is  settled  with  my  neighbor,  the 
chimney-doctor;  he  will  repair  my  old  stove,  and  an- 
swers for  its  being  as  good  as  new.  At  five  o'clock  we 
are  to  set  out,  and  put  it  up  in  Paulette's  grandmother's 
room. 

Midnight. — All  has  gone  off  well.  At  the  hour 
agreed  upon,  I  was  at  the  old  bandbox-maker's;  she 
was  still  out.  My  Piedmontese  *  fixed  the  stove,  while 
I  arranged  a  dozen  logs  in  the  great  fireplace,  taken 

*  In  Paris  a  chimney-sweeper  is  named  "  Piedmontese  "  or  "  Savoy- 
ard," as  they  usually  come  from  that  country. 

[8] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

from  my  winter  stock.  I  shall  make  up  for  them 
by  warming  myself  with  walking,  or  by  going  to  bed 
earlier. 

My  heart  beat  at  every  step  that  was  heard  on  the 
staircase ;  I  trembled  lest  they  should  interrupt  me  in  my 
preparations,  and  should  thus  spoil  my  intended  sur- 
prise. But  no! — see  everything  ready:  the  lighted  stove 
murmurs  gently,  the  little  lamp  burns  upon  the  table, 
and  a  bottle  of  oil  for  it  is  provided  on  the  shelf.  The 
chimney-doctor  is  gone.  Now  my  fear  lest  they  should 
come  is  changed  into  impatience  at  their  not  coming. 
At  last  I  hear  children's  voices;  here  they  are:  they  push 
open  the  door  and  rush  in — but  they  all  stop  in  astonish- 
ment. 

At  the  sight  of  the  lamp,  the  stove,  and  the  visitor, 
who  stands  there  like  a  magician  in  the  midst  of  these 
wonders,  they  draw  back  almost  frightened.  Paulette 
is  the  first  to  comprehend  it,  and  the  arrival  of  the 
grandmother,  who  is  more  slowly  mounting  the  stairs, 
finishes  the  explanation.  Then  come  tears,  ecstasies, 
thanks! 

But  the  wonders  are  not  yet  ended.  The  little  sister 
opens  the  oven,  and  discovers  some  chestnuts  just  roast- 
ed; the  grandmother  puts  her  hand  on  the  bottles  of 
cider  arranged  on  the  dresser;  and  I  draw  forth  from  the 
basket  that  I  have  hidden  a  cold  tongue,  a  pot  of  butter, 
and  some  fresh  rolls. 

Now  their  wonder  turns  into  admiration;  the  little 
family  have  never  seen  such  a  feast!  They  lay  the 
cloth,  they  sit  down,  they  eat ;  it  is  a  complete  banquet  for 
all,  and  each  contributes  his  share  to  it.    I  had  brought 

[9] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

only  the  supper:  and  the  bandbox-maker  and  her  chil- 
dren supplied  the  enjoyment. 

What  bursts  of  laughter  at  nothing !  What  a  hubbub 
of  questions  which  waited  for  no  reply,  of  replies  which 
answered  no  question!  The  old  woman  herself  shared 
in  the  wild  merriment  of  the  little  ones!  I  have  always 
been  struck  at  the  ease  with  which  the  poor  forget  their 
wretchedness.  Being  used  to  live  only  for  the  present, 
they  make  a  gain  of  every  pleasure  as  soon  as  it  offers 
itself.  But  the  surfeited  rich  are  more  difficult  to  sat- 
isfy: they  require  time  and  everything  to  suit  before 
they  will  consent  to  be  happy. 

The  evening  has  passed  like  a  moment.  The  old 
woman  told  me  the  history  of  her  life,  sometimes  smiling, 
sometimes  drying  her  eyes.  Perrine  sang  an  old  ballad 
with  her  fresh  young  voice.  Henry  told  us  what  he 
knows  of  the  great  writers  of  the  day,  to  whom  he  has  to 
carry  their  proofs.  At  last  we  were  obliged  to  separate, 
not  without  fresh  thanks  on  the  part  of  the  happy  family. 

I  have  come  home  slowly,  ruminating  with  a  full 
heart,  and  pure  enjoyment,  on  the  simple  events  of  my 
evening.  It  has  given  me  much  comfort  and  much  in- 
struction. Now,  no  New- Year's  Day  will  come  amiss 
to  me ;  I  know  that  no  one  is  so  unhappy  as  to  have  noth- 
ing to  give  and  nothing  to  receive. 

As  I  came  in,  I  met  my  rich  neighbor's  new  equipage. 
She,  too,  had  just  returned  from  her  evening's  party; 
and,  as  she  sprang  from  the  carriage-step  with  feverish 
impatience,  I  heard  her  murmur  "At  last!" 

I,  when  I  left  Paulette's  family,  said  "So  soon!" 


[lo] 


CHAPTER  II 


THE    CARNIVAL 


February  20th 

'HAT  a  noise  out  of  doors!  What  is 
the  meaning  of  these  shouts  and  cries  ? 
Ah !  I  recollect :  this  is  the  last  day  of 
the  Carnival,  and  the  maskers  are 
passing. 

Christianity  has  not  been  able  to 
abolish  the  noisy  bacchanalian  festi- 
vals of  the  pagan  times,  but  it  has 
changed  the  names.  That  which  it  has  given  to  these 
"days  of  liberty"  announces  the  ending  of  the  feasts, 
and  the  month  of  fasting  which  should  follow;  carn-i- 
val  means,  literally,  "farewell  to  flesh!"  It  is  a  forty 
days-  farewell  to  the  "blessed  pullets  and  fat  hams," 
so  celebrated  by  Pantagruel's  minstrel.  Man  prepares 
for  privation  by  satiety,  and  finishes  his  sin  thoroughly 
before  he  begins  to  repent. 

Why,  in  all  ages  and  among  every  people,  do  we  meet 
with  some  one  of  these  mad  festivals  ?  Must  we  believe 
that  it  requires  such  an  effort  for  men  to  be  reasonable, 
that  the  weaker  ones  have  need  of  rest  at  intervals? 
The  monks  of  La  Trappe,  who  are  condemned  to  silence 
by  their  rule,  are  allowed  to  speak  once  in  a  month,  and 
on  this  day  they  all  talk  at  once  from  the  rising  to  the 
setting  of  the  sun. 

[II] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

Perhaps  it  is  the  same  in  the  world.  As  we  are 
obhged  all  the  year  to  be  decent,  orderly,  and  reason- 
able, we  make  up  for  such  a  long  restraint  during  the 
Carnival.  It  is  a  door  opened  to  the  incongruous 
fancies  and  wishes  that  have  hitherto  been  crowded 
back  into  a  corner  of  our  brain.  For  a  moment  the 
slaves  become  the  masters,  as  in  the  days  of  the  Sat- 
urnalia, and  all  is  given  up  to  the  ''fools  of  the  fam- 
ily." 

The  shouts  in  the  square  redouble;  the  troops  of 
masks  increase — on  foot,  in  carriages,  and  on  horse- 
back. It  is  now  who  can  attract  the  most  attention  by 
making  a  figure  for  a  few  hours,  or  by  exciting  curiosity 
or  env}';  to-morrow  they  will  all  return,  dull  and  ex- 
hausted, to  the  employments  and  troubles  of  yester- 
day. 

Alas!  thought  I  with  vexation,  each  of  us  is  like  these 
masqueraders ;  our  whole  life  is  often  but  an  unsightly 
Carnival !  And  yet  man  has  need  of  holidays,  to  relax 
his  mind,  rest  his  body,  and  open  his  heart.  Can  he  not 
have  them,  then,  with  these  coarse  pleasures?  Econo- 
mists have  been  long  inquiring  what  is  the  best  disposal 
of  the  industry  of  the  human  race.  Ah!  if  I  could  only 
discover  the  best  disposal  of  its  leisure!  It  is  easy 
enough  to  find  it  work ;  but  who  will  find  it  relaxation  ? 
Work  supplies  the  daily  bread;  but  it  is  cheerfulness 
that  gives  it  a  relish.  O  philosophers!  go  in  quest 
of  pleasure!  find  us  amusements  without  brutality,  en- 
joyments without  selfishness;  in  a  word,  invent  a  Carni- 
val that  will  please  everybody,  and  bring  shame  to  no 
one. 

[12] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

Three  o^ clock. — I  have  just  shut  my  window,  and 
stirred  up  my  fire.  As  this  is  a  holiday  for  everybody, 
I  will  make  it  one  for  myself,  too.  So  I  light  the  little 
lamp  over  which,  on  grand  occasions,  I  make  a  cup  of 
the  coffee  that  my  portress's  son  brought  from  the  Le- 
vant, and  I  look  in  my  bookcase  for  one  of  my  favorite 
authors. 

First,  here  is  the  amusing  parson  of  Meudon;  but  his 
characters  are  too  fond  of  talking  slang: — Voltaire; 
but  he  disheartens  men  by  always  bantering  them: — 
Moliere;  but  he  hinders  one's  laughter  by  making  one 
think: — Lesage;  let  us  stop  at  him.  Being  profound 
rather  than  grave,  he  preaches  virtue  while  ridiculing 
vice;  if  bitterness  is  sometimes  to  be  found  in  his  writ- 
ings, it  is  always  in  the  garb  of  mirth :  he  sees  the  miser- 
ies of  the  world  without  despising  it,  and  knows  its 
cowardly  tricks  without  hating  it. 

Let  us  call  up  all  the  heroes  of  his  book.  Gil  Bias, 
Fabrice,  Sangrado,  the  Archbishop  of  Granada,  the 
Duke  of  Lerma,  Aurora,  Scipio!  Ye  gay  or  graceful 
figures,  rise  before  my  eyes,  people  my  solitude;  bring 
hither  for  my  amusement  the  world -carnival,  of  which 
you  are  the  brilliant  maskers! 

Unfortunately,  at  the  very  moment  I  made  this  in- 
vocation, I  recollected  I  had  a  letter  to  write  which 
could  not  be  put  off.  One  of  my  attic  neighbors  came 
yesterday. to  ask  me  to  do  it.  He  is  a  cheerful  old  man, 
and  has  a  passion  for  pictures  and  prints.  He  comes 
home  almost  every  day  with  a  drawing  or  painting — 
probably  of  little  value ;  for  I  know  he  lives  penuriously, 
and  even  the  letter  that  I  am  to  write  for  him  shows  his 

[13] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

poverty.  His  only  son,  who  was  married  in  England, 
is  just  dead,  and  his  widow — left  without  any  means, 
and  with  an  old  mother  and  a  child — had  written  to 
beg  for  a  home.  M.  Antoine  asked  me  first  to  translate 
the  letter,  and  then  to  write  a  refusal.  I  had  promised 
that  he  should  have  this  answer  to-day:  before  every- 
thing, let  us  fulfil  our  promises. 

The  sheet  of  "Bath"  paper  is  before  me,  I  have 
dipped  my  pen  into  the  ink,  and  I  rub  my  forehead  to 
invite  forth  a  sally  of  ideas,  when  I  perceive  that  I  have 
not  my  dictionary.  Now,  a  Parisian  who  would  speak 
English  without  a  dictionary  is  like  a  child  without 
leading-strings;  the  ground  trembles  under  him,  and 
he  stumbles  at  the  first  step.  I  run  then  to  the  book- 
binder's, where  I  left  my  Johnson,  who  lives  close  by  in 
the  square. 

The  door  is  half  open;  I  hear  low  groans;  I  enter  with- 
out knocking,  and  I  see  the  bookbinder  by  the  bedside 
of  his  fellow-lodger.  This  latter  has  a  violent  fever  and 
delirium.  Pierre  looks  at  him  perplexed  and  out  of 
humor.  I  learn  from  him  that  his  comrade  was  not 
able  to  get  up  in  the  morning,  and  that  since  then  he  has 
become  worse  every  hour, 

I  ask  whether  they  have  sent  for  a  doctor. 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed!"  replied  Pierre, roughly;  "one must 
have  money  in  one's  pocket  for  that,  and  this  fellow  has 
only  debts  instead  of  savings." 

"But  you,"  said  I,  rather  astonished;  "are  you  not 
his  friend?" 

"Friend!"  interrupted  the  bookbinder.  "Yes,  as 
much  as  the  shaft-horse  is  friend  to  the  leader — on  con- 

[14] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

dition  that  each  will  take  his  share  of  the  draught,  and 
eat  his  feed  by  himself." 

"You  do  not  intend,  however,  to  leave  him  without 
any  help?" 

"Bah!  he  may  keep  in  his  bed  till  to-morrow,  as  I'm 
going  to  the  ball." 

"You  mean  to  leave  him  alone ? " 

"Well!  must  I  miss  a  party  of  pleasure  at  Courtville* 
because  this  fellow  is  lightheaded?"  asked  Pierre, 
sharply.  "I  have  promised  to  meet  some  friends  at  old 
Desnoyer's.  Those  who  are  sick  may  take  their  broth; 
my  physic  is  white  wine." 

So  saying,  he  untied  a  bundle,  out  of  which  he  took 
the  fancy  costume  of  a  waterman,  and  proceeded  to 
dress  himself  in  it. 

In  vain  I  tried  to  awaken  some  fellow-feeling  for  the 
unfortunate  man  who  lay  groaning  there,  close  by  him; 
being  entirely  taken  up  with  the  thoughts  of  his  ex- 
pected pleasure,  Pierre  would  hardly  so  much  as  hear 
me.  At  last  his  coarse  selfishness  provoked  me.  I 
began  reproaching  instead  of  remonstrating  with  him, 
and  I  declared  him  responsible  for  the  consequences 
which  such  a  desertion  must  bring  upon  the  sick  man. 

At  this  the  bookbinder,  who  was  just  going,  stopped 
with  an  oath,  and  stamped  his  foot.  "Am  I  to  spend 
my  Carnival  in  heating  water  for  footbaths,  pray?" 

"You  must  not  leave  your  comrade  to  die  without 
help!"  I  replied. 

"Let  him  go  to  the  hospital,  then!" 

"How  can  he  by  himself  ? " 

*  A  Parisian  summer  resort. 
[15] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

Pierre  seemed  to  make  up  his  mind. 

''Well,  I'm  going  to  take  him,"  resumed  he;  "be- 
sides, I  shall  get  rid  of  him  sooner.  Come,  get  up,  com- 
rade !"  He  shook  his  comrade,  who  had  not  taken  off 
his  clothes.  I  observed  that  he  was  too  weak  to  walk, 
but  the  bookbinder  would  not  listen:  he  made  him  get 
up,  and  half  dragged,  half  supported  him  to  the  lodge 
of  the  porter,  who  ran  for  a  hackney  carriage.  I  saw 
the  sick  man  get  into  it,  almost  fainting,  with  the  im- 
patient waterman ;  and  they  both  set  off,  one  perhaps  to 
die,  the  other  to  dine  at  Courtville  Gardens ! 

Six  0^ clock. — I  have  been  to  knock  at  my  neighbor's 
door,  who  opened  it  himself;  and  I  have  given  him  his 
letter,  finished  at  last,  and  directed  to  his  son's  widow. 
M.  Antoine  thanked  me  gratefully,  and  made  me  sit 
down.  • 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  been  into  the  attic  of  the 
old  amateur.  Curtains  stained  with  damp  and  hanging 
down  in  rags,  a  cold  stove,  a  bed  of  straw,  two  broken 
chairs,  composed  all  the  furniture.  At  the  end  of  the 
room  were  a  great  number  of  prints  in  a  heap,  and  paint- 
ings without  frames  turned  against  the  wall. 

At  the  moment  I  came  in,  the  old  man  was  making 
his  dinner  on  some  hard  crusts  of  bread,  which  he  was 
soaking  in  a  glass  of  eau  sucree.  He  perceived  that  my 
eyes  fell  upon  his  hermit  fare,  and  he  looked  a  little 
ashamed. 

"There  is  nothing  to  tempt  you  in  my  supper,  neigh- 
bor," said  he,  with  a  smile. 

I  replied  that  at  least  I  thought  it  a  very  philosophical 
one  for  the  Carnival. 

[i6] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

M.  Antoine  shook  his  head,  and  went  on  again  with 
his  supper. 

"Every  one  keeps  his  holidays  in  his  own  way,"  re- 
sumed he,  beginning  again  to  dip  a  crust  into  his  glass. 
"There  are  several  sorts  of  epicures,  and  not  all  feasts 
are  meant  to  regale  the  palate;  there  are  some  also  for 
the  ears  and  the  eyes." 

I  looked  involuntarily  round  me,  as  if  to  seek  for  the 
invisible  banquet  which  could  make  up  to  him  for  such 
a  supper. 

Without  doubt  he  understood  me;  for  he  got  up  slow- 
ly, and,  with  the  magisterial  air  of  a  man  confident  in 
what  he  is  about  to  do,  he  rummaged  behind  several 
picture  frames,  drew  forth  a  painting,  over  which  he 
passed  his  hand,  and  silently  placed  it  under  the  light 
of  the  lamp. 

It  represented  a  fine-looking  old  man,  seated  at  table 
with  his  wife,  his  daughter,  and  his  children,  and  sing- 
ing to  the  accompaniment  of  musicians  who  appeared 
in  the  background.  At  first  sight  I  recognized  the  sub- 
ject, which  I  had  often  admired  at  the  Louvre,  and  I  de- 
clared it  to  be  a  splendid  copy  of  Jordaens. 

"A  copy!"  cried  M.  Antoine;  "say  an  original,  neigh- 
bor, and  an  original  retouched  by  Rubens!  Look 
closer  at  the  head  of  the  old  man,  the  dress  of  the 
young  woman,  and  the  accessories.  One  can  count 
the  pencil-strokes  of  the  Hercules  of  painters.  It  is 
not  only  a  masterpiece,  sir;  it  is  a  treasure — a  relic! 
The  picture  at  the  Louvre  may  be  a  pearl,  this  is  a  dia- 
mond!" 

And  resting  it  against  the  stove,  so  as  to  place  it  in  the 
2  [17] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

best  light,  he  fell  again  to  soaking  his  crusts,  without 
taking  his  eyes  off  the  wonderful  picture.  One  would 
have  said  that  the  sight  of  it  gave  the  crusts  an  unex- 
pected relish,  for  he  chewed  them  slowly,  and  emptied 
his  glass  by  little  sips.  His  shrivelled  features  became 
smooth,  his  nostrils  expanded ;  it  was  indeed,  as  he  said 
himself,  "a  feast  for  the  eyes." 

"You  see  that  I  also  have  my  treat,"  he  resumed, 
nodding  his  head  with  an  air  of  triumph.  "  Others  may 
run  after  dinners  and  balls;  as  for  me,  this  is  the 
pleasure  I  give  myself  for  my  Carnival." 

"But  if  this  painting  is  really  so  precious,"  replied  I, 
"it  ought  to  be  worth  a  high  price." 

"Eh!  eh!"  said  M.  Antoine,  with  an  air  of  proud  in- 
difference. "In  good  times,  a  good  judge  might  value 
it  at  somewhere  about  twenty  thousand  francs." 

I  started  back. 

"And  you  have  bought  it?"  cried  I. 

"For  nothing,"  replied  he,  lowering  his  voice.  " These 
brokers  are  asses;  mine  mistook  this  for  a  student's 
copy;  he  let  me  have  it  for  fifty  louis,  ready  money! 
This  morning  I  took  them  to  him,  and  now  he  wishes 
to  be  off  the  bargain." 

"This  morning!"  repeated  I,  involuntarily  casting 
my  eyes  on  the  letter  containing  the  refusal  that  M. 
Antoine  had  made  me  write  to  his  son's  widow,  which 
was  still  on  the  little  table. 

He  took  no  notice  of  my  exclamation,  and  went  on 
contemplating  the  work  of  Jordaens  in  an  ecstasy. 

"What  a  knowledge  of  chiaroscuro T^  he  murmured, 
biting  his  last  crust  in  delight.     "What  relief!  what 

[i8] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

fire!  Where  can  one  find  such  transparency  of  color! 
such  magical  lights!  such  force!  such  nature!" 

As  I  was  hstening  to  him  in  silence,  he  mistook  my 
astonishment  for  admiration,  and  clapped  me  on  the 
shoulder. 

"You  are  dazzled,"  said  he  merrily;  "you  did  not  ex- 
pect such  a  treasure !  What  do  you  say  to  the  bargain 
I  have  made?" 

"Pardon  me,"  replied  I,  gravely;  "but  I  think  you 
might  have  done  better." 

M.  Antoine  raised  his  head. 

"How!"  cried  he;  "do  you  take  me  for  a  man  likely 
to  be  deceived  about  the  merit  or  value  of  a  paint- 
ing?" 

"I  neither  doubt  your  taste  nor  your  skill;  but  I  can- 
not help  thinking  that,  for  the  price  of  this  picture  of  a 
family  party,  you  might  have  had " 

"What  then?" 

"The  family  itself,  sir." 

The  old  amateur  cast  a  look  at  me,  not  of  anger,  but 
of  contempt.  In  his  eyes  I  had  evidently  just  proved 
myself  a  barbarian,  incapable  of  understanding  the 
arts,  and  unworthy  of  enjoying  them.  He  got  up  with- 
out answering  me,  hastily  took  up  the  Jordaens,  and 
replaced  it  in  its  hiding-place  behind  the  prints. 

It  was  a  sort  of  dismissal;  I  took  leave  of  him,  and 
went  away. 

Seven  o^clock. — When  I  come  in  again,  I  find  my 
water  boiling  over  my  lamp,  and  I  busy  myself  in  grind- 
ing my  Mocha,  and  setting  out  my  coffee-things. 

The  getting  coffee  ready  is  the  most  delicate  and  most 

[19] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

attractive  of  domestic  operations  to  one  who  lives  alone: 
it  is  the  grand  work  of  a  bachelor's  housekeeping. 

Coffee  is,  so  to  say,  just  the  mid-point  between  bodily 
and  spiritual  nourishment.  It  acts  agreeably,  and  at 
the  same  time,  upon  the  senses  and  the  thoughts.  Its 
very  fragrance  gives  a  sort  of  delightful  activity  to  the 
wits;  it  is  a  genius  that  lends  wings  to  our  fancy,  and 
transports  it  to  the  land  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 

When  I  am  buried  in  my  old  easy-chair,  my  feet  on 
the  fender  before  a  blazing  fire,  my  ear  soothed  by  the 
singing  of  the  coffee-pot,  which  seems  to  gossip  with  my 
fire-irons,  the  sense  of  smell  gently  excited  by  the  aroma 
of  the  Arabian  bean,  and  my  eyes  shaded  by  my  cap 
pulled  down  over  them,  it  often  seems  as  if  each  cloud 
of  the  fragrant  steam  took  a  distinct  form.  As  in  the 
mirages  of  the  desert,  in  each  as  it  rises,  I  see  some  image 
of  which  my  mind  had  been  longing  for  the  reality. 

At  first  the  vapor  increases,  and  its  color  deepens. 
I  see  a  cottage  on  a  hillside :  behind  is  a  garden  shut  in 
by  a  white-thorn  hedge,  and  through  the  garden  runs  a 
brook,  on  the  banks  of  which  I  hear  the  bees  hum- 
ming. 

Then  the  view  opens  still  more.  See  those  fields 
planted  with  apple-trees,  in  which  I  can  distinguish  a 
plough  and  horses  waiting  for  their  master !  Farther  on, 
in  a  part  of  the  wood  which  rings  with  the  sound  of  the 
axe,  I  perceive  the  woodsman's  hut,  roofed  with  turf 
and  branches;  and,  in  the  midst  of  all  these  rural  pict- 
ures, I  seem  to  see  a  figure  of  myself  gliding  about.  It 
is  my  ghost  walking  in  my  dream ! 

The  bubbling  of  the  water,  ready  to  boil  over,  com- 

[20] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILC30PHER 

pels  me  to  break  off  my  meditations,  in  order  to  fill  up 
the  coffee-pot.  I  then  remember  that  I  have  no  cream; 
I  take  my  tin  can  off  the  hook  and  go  down  to  the  milk- 
woman's. 

Mother  Denis  is  a  hale  countrywoman  from  Savoy, 
which  she  left  when  quite  young;  and,  contrary  to  the 
custom  of  the  Savoyards,  she  has  not  gone  back  to  it 
again.  She  has  neither  husband  nor  child,  notwith- 
standing the  title  they  give  her;  but  her  kindness,  which 
never  sleeps,  makes  her  worthy  of  the  name  of  mother. 

A  brave  creature!  Left  by  herself  in  the  battle  of 
life,  she  makes  good  her  humble  place  in  it  by  working, 
singing,  helping  others,  and  leaving  the  rest  to  God. 

At  the  door  of  the  milk-shop  I  hear  loud  bursts  of 
laughter.  In  one  of  the  comers  of  the  shop  three  chil- 
dren are  sitting  on  the  ground.  They  wear  the  sooty 
dress  of  Savoyard  boys,  and  in  their  hands  they  hold 
large  slices  of  bread  and  cheese.  The  youngest  is  be- 
smeared up  to  the  eyes  with  his,  and  that  is  the  reason 
of  their  mirth. 

Mother  Denis  points  them  out  to  me. 

''Look  at  the  little  lambs,  how  they  enjoy  them- 
selves!" said  she,  putting  her  hand  on  the  head  of  the 
little  glutton. 

"He  has  had  no  breakfast,"  puts  in  one  of  the  others 
by  way  of  excuse. 

"Poor  little  thing,"  said  the  milkwoman;  "he  is  left 
alone  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  where  he  can  find  no  other 
father  than  the  All-good  God!" 

"And  that  is  why  you  make  yourself  a  mother  to 
them?"  I  replied,  gently. 

[21] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

"What  I  do  is  little  enough,"  said  Mother  Denis, 
measuring  out  my  milk;  "but  every  day  I  get  some  of 
them  together  out  of  the  street,  that  for  once  they  may 
have  enough  to  eat.  Dear  children !  their  mothers  will 
make  up  for  it  in  heaven.  Not  to  mention  that  they 
recall  my  native  mountains  to  me :  when  they  sing  and 
dance,  I  seem  to  see  our  old  father  again." 

Here  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"So  you  are  repaid  by  your  recollections  for  the  good 
you  do  them  ?  "  resumed  I. 

"Yes!  yes!"  said  she,  "and  by  their  happiness,  too! 
The  laughter  of  these  little  ones,  sir,  is  like  a  bird's 
song;  it  makes  you  gay,  and  gives  you  heart  to  live." 

As  she  spoke  she  cut  some  fresh  slices  of  bread  and 
cheese,  and  added  some  apples  and  a  handful  of  nuts  to 
them. 

"Come,  my  little  dears,"  she  cried,  "put  these  into 
your  pockets  against  to-morrow." 

Then,  turning  to  me 

"To-day  I  am  ruining  myself,"  added  she;  "but  we 
must  all  have  our  Carnival." 

I  came  away  without  saying  a  word :  I  was  too  much 
affected. 

At  last  I  have  discovered  what  true  pleasure  is.  After 
beholding  the  egotism  of  sensuality  and  of  intellect, 
I  have  found  the  happy  self-sacrifice  of  goodness. 
Pierre,  M.  Antoine,  and  Mother  Denis  had  all  kept 
their  Carnival;  but  for  the  first  two,  it  was  only  a  feast 
for  the  senses  or  the  mind ;  while  for  the  third,  it  was  a 
feast  for  the  heart. 

[22] 


GHAPTER  III 

WHAT  WE  MAY  LEARN  BY  LOOKING    OUT    OF    WINDOW 

March  3c? 

POET  has  said  that  Hfe  is  the  dream 
of  a  shadow:  he  would  better  have 
compared  it  toa  night  of  fever!  What 
alternate  fits  of  restlessness  and  sleep ! 
what  discomfort !  what  sudden  starts ! 
what  ever- returning  thirst!  what  a 
chaos  of  mournful  and  confused  fan- 
cies! We  can  neither  sleep  nor  wake; 
we  seek  in  vain  for  repose,  and  we  stop  short  on  the 
brink  of  action.  Two  thirds  of  human  existence  are 
wasted  in  hesitation,  and  the  last  third  in  repent- 
ing. 

When  I  say  human  existence,  I  mean  my  own!  We 
are  so  made  that  each  of  us  regards  himself  as  the  mir- 
ror of  the  community:  what  passes  in  our  minds  in- 
fallibly seems  to  us  a  history  of  the  universe.  Every 
man  is  like  the  drunkard  who  reports  an  earthquake, 
because  he  feels  himself  staggering. 

And  why  am  I  uncertain  and  restless — I,  a  poor  day- 
laborer  in  the  world — who  fill  an  obscure  station  in  a 
comer  of  it,  and  whose  work  it  avails  itself  of,  vv^ithout 
heeding  the  workman  ?  I  will  tell  you,  my  unseen  friend, 
for  whom  these  lines  are  written;  my  unknown  brother, 

[23] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

on  whom  the  sohtary  call  in  sorrow ;  my  imaginary  con- 
fidant, to  whom  all  monologues  are  addressed  and  who 
is  but  the  shadow  of  our  own  conscience. 

A  great  event  has  happened  in  my  life!  A  cross- 
road has  suddenly  opened  in  the  middle  of  the  monot- 
onous way  along  which  I  was  travelling  quietly,  and 
without  thinking  of  it.  Two  roads  present  themselves, 
and  I  must  choose  between  them.  One  is  only  the  con- 
tinuation of  that  I  have  followed  till  now;  the  other  is 
wider,  and  exhibits  wondrous  prospects.  On  the  first 
there  is  nothing  to  fear,  but  also  little  to  hope;  on  the 
other  are  great  dangers  and  great  fortune.  Briefly,  the 
question  is,  whether  I  shall  give  up  the  humble  office  in 
which  I  thought  to  die,  for  one  of  those  bold  speculations 
in  which  chance  alone  is  banker!  Ever  since  yesterday 
I  have  consulted  with  myself;  I  have  compared  the  two 
and  I  remain  undecided. 

Where  shall  I  find  light — who  will  advise  me  ? 

Sunday,  4th. — See  the  sun  coming  out  from  the  thick 
fogs  of  winter!  Spring  announces  its  approach;  a  soft 
breeze  skims  over  the  roofs,  and  my  wallflower  begins  to 
blow  again. 

We  are  near  that  sweet  season  of  fresh  green,  of  which 
the  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century  sang  with  so  much 

feeling: 

Now  the  gladsome  month  of  May 
All  things  newly  doth  array ; 
Fairest  lady,  let  me  too 
In  thy  love  my  life  renew. 

The  chirping  of  the  sparrows  calls  me :  they  claim  the 
crumbs  I  scatter  to  them  every  morning.     I  open  my 

[24] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

window,  and  the  prospect  of  roofs  opens  out  before  me 
in  all  its  splendor. 

He  who  has  lived  only  on  a  first  floor  has  no  idea  of 
the  picturesque  variety  of  such  a  view.  He  has  never 
contemplated  these  tile-colored  heights  which  intersect 
each  other;  he  has  not  followed  with  his  eyes  these 
gutter-valleys,  where  the  fresh  verdure  of  the  attic 
gardens  waves,  the  deep  shadows  which  evening  spreads 
over  the  slated  slopes,  and  the  sparkling  of  windows 
which  the  setting  sun  has  kindled  to  a  blaze  of  fire.  He 
has  not  studied  the  flora  of  these  Alps  of  civilization, 
carpeted  by  lichens  and  mosses;  he  is  not  acquainted 
with  the  myriad  inhabitants  that  people  them,  from 
the  microscopic  insect  to  the  domestic  cat — that  rey- 
nard  of  the  roofs  who  is  always  on  the  prowl,  or  in  am- 
bush; he  has  not  witnessed  the  thousand  aspects  of  a 
clear  or  a  cloudy  sky;  nor  the  thousand  effects  of  light, 
that  make  these  upper  regions  a  theatre  with  ever- 
changing  scenes!  How  many  times  have  my  days  of 
leisure  passed  away  in  contemplating  this  wonderful 
sight;  in  discovering  its  darker  or  brighter  episodes;  in 
seeking,  in  short,  in  this  unknown  world  for  the  im- 
pressions of  travel  that  wealthy  tourists  look  for  lower! 

Nine  o^clock. — But  why,  then,  have  not  my  winged 
neighbors  picked  up  the  crumbs  I  have  scattered  for 
them  before  my  window?  I  see  them  fly  away,  come 
back,  perch  upon  the  ledges  of  the  windows,  and  chirp 
at  the  sight  of  the  feast  they  are  usually  so  ready  to  de- 
vour! It  is  not  my  presence  that  frightens  them;  I 
have  accustomed  them  to  eat  out  of  my  hand.  Then, 
why  this  fearful  suspense  ?     In  vain  I  look  around :  the 

[25] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

roof  is  clear,  the  windows  near  are  closed.  I  crumble 
the  bread  that  remains  from  my  breakfast  to  attract 
them  by  an  ampler  feast.  Their  chirpings  increase, 
they  bend  down  their  heads,  the  boldest  approach  upon 
the  wing,  but  without  daring  to  alight. 

Come,  come,  my  sparrows  are  the  victims  of  one  of 
the  foolish  panics  which  make  the  funds  fall  at  the 
Bourse !  It  is  plain  that  birds  are  not  more  reasonable 
than  men! 

With  this  reflection  I  was  about  to  shut  my  window, 
when  suddenly  I  perceived,  in  a  spot  of  sunshine 
on  my  right,  the  shadow  of  two  pricked-up  ears;  then 
a  paw  advanced,  then  the  head  of  a  tabby-cat  showed 
itself  at  the  corner  of  the  gutter.  The  cunning  fellow 
was  lying  there  in  wait,  hoping  the  crumbs  would  bring 
him  some  game. 

And  I  had  accused  my  guests  of  cowardice!  I  was 
so  sure  that  no  danger  could  menace  them !  I  thought 
I  had  looked  well  everywhere!  I  had  only  forgotten 
the  corner  behind  me ! 

In  life,  as  on  the  roofs,  how  many  misfortunes  come 
from  having  forgotten  a  single  corner ! 

Ten  0^ clock. — I  cannot  leave  my  window;  the  rain  and 
the  cold  have  kept  it  shut  so  long  that  I  must  recon- 
noitre all  the  environs  to  be  able  to  take  possession  of 
them  again.  My  eyes  search  in  succession  all  the  points 
of  the  jumbled  and  confused  prospect,  passing  on  or 
stopping  according  to  what  they  light  upon. 

Ah!  see  the  windows  upon  which  they  formerly  loved 
to  rest ;  they  are  those  of  two  unknown  neighbors,  whose 
different  habits  they  have  long  remarked. 

[26] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

One  is  a  poor  workwoman,  who  rises  before  sunrise, 
and  whose  profile  is  shadowed  upon  her  Httle  mushn 
window-curtain  far  into  the  evening ;  the  other  is  a  young 
songstress,  whose  vocal  flourishes  sometimes  reach  my 
attic  by  snatches.  When  their  windows  are  open,  that  of 
the  workwoman  discovers  a  humble  but  decent  abode; 
the  other,  an  elegantly  furnished  room.  But  to-day 
a  crowd  of  tradespeople  throng  the  latter:  they  take 
down  the  silk  hangings  and  carry  off  the  furniture,  and 
I  now  remember  that  the  young  singer  passed  under 
my  window  this  morning  with  her  veil  down,  and  walk- 
ing with  the  hasty  step  of  one  who  suffers  some  inward 
trouble.  Ah!  I  guess  it  all.  Her  means  are  exhausted 
in  elegant  fancies,  or  have  been  taken  away  by  some 
unexpected  misfortune,  and  now  she  has  fallen  from 
luxury  to  indigence.  While  the  workwoman  manages 
not  only  to  keep  her  little  room,  but  also  to  furnish  it 
with  decent  comfort  by  her  steady  toil,  that  of  the  singer 
is  become  the  property  of  brokers.  The  one  sparkled 
for  a  moment  on  the  wave  of  prosperity;  the  other  sails 
slowly  but  safely  along  the  coast  of  a  humble  and  labori- 
ous industry. 

Alas !  is  there  not  here  a  lesson  for  us  all  ?  Is  it  really 
in  hazardous  experiments,  at  the  end  of  which  we  shall 
meet  with  wealth  or  ruin,  that  the  wise  man  should  em- 
ploy his  years  of  strength  and  freedom?  Ought  he  to 
consider  life  as  a  regular  emplo3mient  which  brings  its 
daily  wages,  or  as  a  game  in  which  the  future  is  de- 
termined by  a  few  throws?  Why  seek  the  risk  of  ex- 
treme chances?  For  what  end  hasten  to  riches  by 
dangerous  roads?    Is  it  really  certain  that  happiness 

[27] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

is  the  prize  of  brilliant  successes,  rather  than  of  a  wisely- 
accepted  poverty?  Ah!  if  men  but  knew  in  what  a 
small  dwelling  joy  can  live,  and  how  little  it  costs  to 
furnish  it ! 

Twelve  o^clock. — I  have  been  walking  up  and  down 
my  attic  for  a  long  time,  with  my  arms  folded  and  my 
eyes  on  the  ground !  My  doubts  increase,  like  shadows 
encroaching  more  and  more  on  some  bright  space;  my 
fears  multiply;  and  the  uncertainty  becomes  every  mo- 
ment more  painful  to  me!  It  is  necessary  for  me  to  de- 
cide to-day,  and  before  the  evening!  I  hold  the  dice  of 
my  future  fate  in  my  hands,  and  I  dare  not  throw  them. 

Three  o'clock. — The  sky  has  become  cloudy,  and  a 
cold  wind  begins  to  blow  from  the  west ;  all  the  windows 
which  were  opened  to  the  sunshine  of  a  beautiful  day 
are  shut  again.  Only  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street, 
the  lodger  on  the  last  story  has  not  yet  left  his  balcony. 

One  knows  him  to  be  a  soldier  by  his  regular  walk, 
his  gray  moustaches,  and  the  ribbon  that  decorates  his 
buttonhole.  Indeed,  one  might  have  guessed  as  much 
from  the  care  he  takes  of  the  little  garden  which  is  the 
ornament  of  his  balcony  in  mid-air;  for  there  are  two 
things  especially  loved  by  all  old  soldiers — flowers  and 
children.  They  have  been  so  long  obliged  to  look  upon 
the  earth  as  a  field  of  battle,  and  so  long  cut  off  from  the 
peaceful  pleasures  of  a  quiet  lot,  that  they  seem  to  begin 
life  at  an  age  when  others  end  it.  The  tastes  of  their 
early  years,  which  were  arrested  by  the  stern  duties  of 
war,  suddenly  break  out  again  with  their  white  hairs, 
and  are  like  the  savings  of  youth  which  they  spend  again 
in  old  age.     Besides,  they  have  been  condemned  to  be 

[28] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

destroyers  for  so  long  that  perhaps  they  feel  a  secret 
pleasure  in  creating,  and  seeing  life  spring  up  again :  the 
beauty  of  weakness  has  a  grace  and  an  attraction  the 
more  for  those  who  have  been  the  agents  of  unbend- 
ing force;  and  the  watching  over  the  frail  germs  of  life 
has  all  the  charms  of  novelty  for  these  old  workmen  of 
death. 

Therefore  the  cold  wind  has  not  driven  my  neighbor 
from  his  balcony.  He  is  digging  up  the  earth  in  his 
green  boxes,  and  carefully  sowing  the  seeds  of  the  scar- 
let nasturtium,  convolvulus,  and  sweet-pea.  Hence- 
forth he  will  come  every  day  to  watch  for  their  first 
sprouting,  to  protect  the  young  shoots  from  weeds  or 
insects,  to  arrange  the  strings  for  the  tendrils  to  climb 
on,  and  carefully  to  regulate  their  supply  of  water  and 
heat! 

How  much  labor  to  bring  in  the  desired  harvest! 
For  that,  how  many  times  shall  I  see  him  brave  cold  or 
heat,  wind  or  sun,  as  he  does  to-day!  But  then,  in  the 
hot  summer  days,  when  the  blinding  dust  whirls  in 
clouds  through  our  streets,  when  the  eye,  dazzled  by  the 
glare  of  white  stucco,  knows  not  where  to  rest,  and  the 
glowing  roofs  reflect  their  heat  upon  us  to  burning,  the 
old  soldier  will  sit  in  his  arbor  and  perceive  nothing  but 
green  leaves  and  flowers  around  him,  and  the  breeze 
will  come  cool  and  fresh  to  him  through  these  perfumed 
shades.     His  assiduous  care  will  be  rewarded  at  last. 

We  must  sow  the  seeds,  and  tend  the  growth,  if  we 
would  enjoy  the  flower. 

Four  0^ clock. — The  clouds  that  have  been  gathering 
in  the  horizon  for  a  long  time  are  become  darker;  it 

[29] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

thunders  loudly,  and  the  rain  pours  down!  Those 
who  are  caught  in  it  fly  in  every  direction,  some  laugh- 
ing and  some  crying. 

I  always  find  particular  amusement  in  these  helter- 
skelters,  caused  by  a  sudden  storm.  It  seems  as  if  each 
one,  when  thus  taken  by  surprise,  loses  the  factitious 
character  that  the  world  or  habit  has  given  him,  and  ap- 
pears in  his  true  colors. 

See,  for  example,  that  big  man  with  deliberate  step, 
who  suddenly  forgets  his  indifference,  made  to  order, 
and  runs  like  a  schoolboy !  He  is  a  thrifty  city  gentle- 
man, who,  with  all  his  fashionable  airs,  is  afraid  to  spoil 
his  hat. 

That  pretty  woman  yonder,  on  the  contrary,  whose 
looks  are  so  modest,  and  whose  dress  is  so  elaborate, 
slackens  her  pace  with  the  increasing  storm.  She 
seems  to  find  pleasure  in  braving  it,  and  does  not  think 
of  her  velvet  cloak  spotted  by  the  hail!  She  is  evi- 
dently a  lioness  in  sheep's  clothing. 

Here,  a  young  man,  who  was  passing,  stops  to  catch 
some  of  the  hailstones  in  his  hand,  and  examines  them. 
By  his  quick  and  business-like  walk  just  now,  you 
would  have  taken  him  for  a  tax-gatherer  on  his  rounds, 
when  he  is  a  young  philosopher,  studying  the  effects  of 
electricity.  And  those  schoolboys  who  leave  their 
ranks  to  run  after  the  sudden  gusts  of  a  March  whirl- 
wind ;  those  girls,  just  now  so  demure,  but  who  now  fly 
with  bursts  of  laughter;  those  national  guards,  who 
quit  the  martial  attitude  of  their  days  of  duty  to  take 
refuge  under  a  porch !  The  storm  has  caused  all  these 
transformations. 

[30] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

See,  it  increases!  The  hardiest  are  obliged  to  seek 
shelter.  I  see  every  one  rushing  toward  the  shop  in 
front  of  my  window,  which  a  bill  announces  is  to  let. 
It  is  for  the  fourth  time  within  a  few  months.  A  year 
ago  all  the  skill  of  the  joiner  and  the  art  of  the  painter 
were  employed  in  beautifying  it,  but  their  works  are  al- 
ready destroyed  by  the  leaving  of  so  many  tenants;  the 
cornices  of  the  front  are  disfigured  by  mud;  the  ara- 
besques on  the  doorway  are  spoiled  by  bills  posted  upon 
them  to  announce  the  sale  of  the  effects.  The  splendid 
shop  has  lost  some  of  its  embellishments  with  each 
change  of  the  tenant.  See  it  now  empty,  and  left  open 
to  the  passersby.  How  much  does  its  fate  resemble 
that  of  so  many  who,  like  it,  only  change  their  occupa- 
tion to  hasten  the  faster  to  ruin ! 

I  am  struck  by  this  last  reflection :  since  the  morning 
everything  seems  to  speak  to  me,  and  with  the  same 
warning  tone.  Everything  says:  "Take  care!  be  con- 
tent with  your  happy,  though  humble  lot ;  happiness  can 
be  retained  only  by  constancy;  do  not  forsake  your  old 
patrons  for  the  protection  of  those  who  are  unknown ! " 

Are  they  the  outward  objects  which  speak  thus,  or 
does  the  warning  come  from  within  ?  Is  it  not  I  myself 
who  give  this  language  to  all  that  surrounds  me  ?  The 
world  is  but  an  instrument,  to  which  we  give  sound  at 
will.  But  what  does  it  signify  if  it  teaches  us  wisdom? 
The  low  voice  that  speaks  in  our  breasts  is  always  a 
friendly  voice,  for  it  tells  us  what  we  are,  that  is  to  say, 
what  is  our  capability.  Bad  conduct  results,  for  the 
most  part,  from  mistaking  our  calling.  There  are  so' 
many  fools  and  knaves,  because  there  are  so  few  men 

[31] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

who  know  themselves.  The  question  is  not  to  discover 
what  will  suit  us,  but  for  what  we  are  suited ! 

What  should  I  do  among  these  many  experienced 
financial  speculators  ?  I  am  only  a  poor  sparrow,  bom 
among  the  housetops,  and  should  always  fear  the  enemy 
crouching  in  the  dark  corner;  I  am  a  prudent  workman, 
and  should  think  of  the  business  of  my  neighbors  who 
so  suddenly  disappeared;  I  am  a  timid  observer,  and 
should  call  to  mind  the  flowers  so  slowly  raised  by  the 
old  soldier,  or  the  shop  brought  to  ruin  by  constant 
change  of  masters.  Away  from  me,  ye  banquets,  over 
which  hangs  the  sword  of  Damocles!  I  am  a  country 
mouse.  Give  me  my  nuts  and  hollow  tree,  and  I  ask 
nothing  besides — except  security. 

And  why  this  insatiable  craving  for  riches?  Does 
a  man  drink  more  when  he  drinks  from  a  large  glass? 
Whence  comes  that  universal  dread  of  mediocrity,  the 
fruitful  mother  of  peace  and  liberty?  Ah!  there  is 
the  evil  which,  above  every  other,  it  should  be  the 
aim  of  both  public  and  private  education  to  antici- 
pate !  If  that  were  got  rid  of,  what  treasons  would  be 
spared,  what  baseness  avoided,  what  a  chain  of  excess 
and  crime  would  be  forever  broken!  We  award  the 
palm  to  charity,  and  to  self-sacrifice;  but,  above  all,  let 
us  award  it  to  moderation,  for  it  is  the  great  social  vir- 
tue. Even  when  it  does  not  create  the  others,  it  stands 
instead  of  them. 

Six  0^ clock. — I  have  written  a  letter  of  thanks  to  the 
promoters  of  the  new  speculation,  and  have  declined 
their  offer!  This  decision  has  restored  my  peace  of 
mind.     I  stopped  singing,  like  the  cobbler,  as  long  as  I 

[32] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

entertained  the  hope  of  riches:  it  is  gone,  and  happiness 
is  come  back ! 

O  beloved  and  gentle  Poverty !  pardon  me  for  having 
for  a  moment  wished  to  fly  from  thee,  as  I  would  from 
Want.  Stay  here  forever  with  thy  charming  sisters. 
Pity,  Patience,  Sobriety,  and  Solitude;  be  ye  my  queens 
and  my  instructors;  teach  me  the  stern  duties  of  life; 
remove  far  from  my  abode  the  weakness  of  heart  and 
giddiness  of  head  which  follow  prosperity.  Holy  Pov- 
erty! teach  me  to  endure  without  complaining,  to  im- 
part without  grudging,  to  seek  the  end  of  life  higher 
than  in  pleasure,  farther  off  than  in  power.  Thou 
givest  the  body  strength,  thou  makest  the  mind  more 
firm;  and,  thanks  to  thee,  this  life,  to  which  the  rich 
attach  themselves  as  to  a  rock,  becomes  a  bark  of  which 
death  may  cut  the  cable  without  awakening  all  our  fears. 
Continue  to  sustain  me,  O  thou  whom  Christ  hath  called 
Blessed ! 


[33] 


CHAPTER  IV 


LET  US   LOVE   ONE   ANOTHER 


April  gth 

^HE  fine  evenings  are  come  back;  the 
trees  begin  to  put  forth  their  shoots; 
hyacinths,  jonquils,  violets,  and  lilacs 
perfume  the  baskets  of  the  flower-girls 
— all  the  world  have  begun  their  walks 
again  on  the  quays  and  boulevards. 
After  dinner,  I,  too,  descend  from  my 
attic  to  breathe  the  evening  air. 
It  is  the  hour  when  Paris  is  seen  in  all  its  beauty- 
During  the  day  the  plast^  fronts  of  the  houses  weary 
the  eye  by  their  monotonous  whiteness;  heavily  laden 
carts  make  the  streets  shake  under  their  huge  wheels; 
the  eager  crowd,  taken  up  by  the  one  fear  of  losing  a 
moment  from  business,  cross  and  jostle  one  another; 
the  aspect  of  the  city  altogether  has  something  harsh, 
restless,  and  flurried  about  it.  But,  as  soon  as  the  stars 
appear,  everything  is  changed;  the  glare  of  the  white 
houses  is  quenched  in  the  gathering  shades;  you  hear 
no  more  any  rolling  but  that  of  the  carriages  on  their 
way  to  some  party  of  pleasure;  you  see  only  the  lounger 
or  the  light-hearted  passing  by;  work  has  given  place 
to  leisure.  Now  each  one  may  breathe  after  the  fierce 
race  through  the  business  of  the  day,  and  whatever 

[34] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

strength  remains  to  him  he  gives  to  pleasure!  See  the 
ballrooms  lighted  up,  the  theatres  open,  the  eating- 
shops  along  the  walks  set  out  with  dainties,  and  the 
twinkling  lanterns  of  the  newspaper  criers.  Decidedly 
Paris  has  laid  aside  the  pen,  the  ruler,  and  the  apron; 
after  the  day  spent  in  work,  it  must  have  the  evening 
for  enjoyment;  like  the  masters  of  Thebes,  it  has  put 
off  all  serious  matter  till  to-morrow. 

I  love  to  take  part  in  this  happy  hour;  not  to  mix  in 
the  general  gayety,  but  to  contemplate  it.  If  the  enjoy- 
ments of  others  embitter  jealous  minds,  they  strengthen 
the  humble  spirit;  they  are  the  beams  of  sunshine, 
which  open  the  two  beautiful  flowers  called  trust  and 
hope. 

Although  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  smiling  multi- 
tude, I  do  not  feel  myself  isolated  from  it,  for  its  gayety 
is  reflected  upon  me :  it  is  my  own  kind,  my  own  fam- 
ily, who  are  enjoying  life,  and  I  take  a  brother's  share 
in  their  happiness.  We  are  all  fellow-soldiers  in  this 
earthly  battle,  and  what  does  it  matter  on  whom  the 
honors  of  the  victory  fall  ?  If  Fortune  passes  by  with- 
out seeing  us,  and  pours  her  favors  on  others,  let  us 
console  ourselves,  like  the  friend  of  Parmenio,  by  say- 
ing, "Those,  too,  are  Alexanders." 

While  making  these  reflections,  I  was  going  on  as 
chance  took  me.  I  crossed  from  one  pavement  to  an- 
other, I  retraced  my  steps,  I  stopped  before  the  shops 
or  to  read  the  handbills.  How  many  things  there  are 
to  learn  in  the  streets  of  Paris!  What  a  museum  it  is! 
Unknown  fruits,  foreign  arms,  furniture  of  old  times  or 
other  lands,  animals  of  all  climates,  statues  of  great 

[35] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

men,  costumes  of  distant  nations!  It  is  the  world  seen 
in  samples! 

Let  us  then  look  at  this  people,  whose  knowledge  is 
gained  from  the  shop-windows  and  the  tradesman's 
display  of  goods.  Nothing  has  been  taught  them,  but 
they  have  a  rude  notion  of  everything.  They  have  seen 
pineapples  at  Chevet's,  a  palm-tree  in  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes,  sugar-canes  selling  on  the  Pont-Neuf.  The 
Redskins,  exhibited  in  the  Valentine  Hall,  have  taught 
them  to  mimic  the  dance  of  the  bison,  and  to  smoke  the 
calumet  of  peace;  they  have  seen  Carter's  lions  fed; 
they  know  the  principal  national  costumes  contained  in 
Babin's  collection;  Goupil's  display  of  prints  has  placed 
the  tiger-hunts  of  Africa  and  the  sittings  of  the  English 
Parliament  before  their  eyes;  they  have  become  ac- 
quainted with  Queen  Victoria,  the  Emperor  of  Austria, 
and  Kossuth,  at  the  office-door  of  the  Illustrated  News. 
We  can  certainly  instruct  them,  but  not  astonish  them ; 
for  nothing  is  completely  new  to  them.  You  may 
take  the  Paris  ragamuffin  through  the  five  quarters 
of  the  world,  and  at  every  wonder  with  which  you 
think  to  surprise  him,  he  will  settle  the  matter  with 
that  favorite  and  conclusive  answer  of  his  class — "I 
know." 

But  this  variety  of  exhibitions,  which  makes  Paris 
the  fair  of  the  world,  does  not  offer  merely  a  means  of 
instruction  to  him  who  walks  through  it;  it  is  a  con- 
tinual spur  for  rousing  the  imagination,  a  first  step  of 
the  ladder  always  set  up  before  us  in  a  vision.  When 
we  see  them,  how  many  voyages  do  we  take  in  imagina- 
tion, what  adventures  do  we  dream  of,  what  pictures  do 

[36] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

we  sketch!  I  never  look  at  that  shop  near  the  Chinese 
baths,  with  its  tapestry  hangings  of  Florida  jessamine, 
and  filled  with  magnoHas,  without  seeing  the  forest 
glades  of  the  New  World,  described  by  the  author  of 
Atala,  opening  themselves  out  before  me. 

Then,  when  this  study  of  things  and  this  discourse 
of  reason  begin  to  tire  you,  look  around  you!  What 
contrasts  of  figures  and  faces  you  see  in  the  crowd! 
What  a  vast  field  for  the  exercise  of  meditation!  A 
half-seen  glance,  or  a  few  words  caught  as  the  speaker 
passes  by,  open  a  thousand  vistas  to  your  imagination. 
You  wish  to  comprehend  what  these  imperfect  disclos- 
ures mean,  and,  as  the  antiquary  endeavors  to  deci- 
pher the  mutilated  inscription  on  some  old  monument, 
you  build  up  a  history  on  a  gesture  or  on  a  word! 
These  are  the  stirring  sports  of  the  mind,  which  finds 
in  fiction  a  relief  from  the  wearisome  dullness  of  the 
actual. 

Alas!  as  I  was  just  now  passing  by  the  carriage-en- 
trance of  a  great  house,  I  noticed  a  sad  subject  for  one 
of  these  histories.  A  man  was  sitting  in  the  darkest 
corner,  with  his  head  bare,  and  holding  out  his  hat  for 
the  charity  of  those  who  passed.  His  threadbare  coat 
had  that  look  of  neatness  which  marks  that  destitution 
has  been  met  by  a  long  struggle.  He  had  carefully  but- 
toned it  up  to  hide  the  want  of  a  shirt.  His  face  was 
half  hid  under  his  gray  hair,  and  his  eyes  were  closed, 
as  if  he  wished  to  escape  the  sight  of  his  own  humilia- 
tion, and  he  remained  mute  and  motionless.  Those 
who  passed  him  took  no  notice  of  the  beggar,  who  sat 
in  silence  and  darkness!  They  had  been  so  lucky  as  to 

[37] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

escape  complaints  and  importunities,  and  were  glad  to 
turn  away  their  eyes  too. 

Suddenly  the  great  gate  turned  on  its  hinges;  and 
a  very  low  carriage,  lighted  with  silver  lamps  and 
drawn  by  two  black  horses,  came  slowly  out,  and  took 
the  road  toward  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain.  I  could 
just  distinguish,  within,  the  sparkling  diamonds  and 
the  flowers  of  a  ball-dress;  the  glare  of  the  lamps 
passed  like  a  bloody  streak  over  the  pale  face  of  the 
beggar,  and  showed  his  look  as  his  eyes  opened  and 
followed  the  rich  man's  equipage  until  it  disappeared 
in  the  night. 

I  dropped  a  small  piece  of  money  into  the  hat  he  was 
holding  out,  and  passed  on  quickly. 

I  had  just  fallen  unexpectedly  upon  the  two  saddest 
secrets  of  the  disease  which  troubles  the  age  we  live  in : 
the  envious  hatred  of  him  who  suffers  want,  and  the 
selfish  forgetfulness  of  him  who  lives  in  affluence. 

All  the  enjoyment  of  my  walk  was  gone;  I  left  off 
looking  about  me,  and  retired  into  my  own  heart.  The 
animated  and  moving  sight  in  the  streets  gave  place  to 
inward  meditation  upon  all  the  painful  problems  which 
have  been  written  for  the  last  four  thousand  years  at 
the  bottom  of  each  human  struggle,  but  which  are  pro- 
pounded more  clearly  than  ever  in  our  days. 

I  pondered  on  the  uselessness  of  so  many  contests, 
in  which  defeat  and  victory  only  displace  each  other  by 
turns,  and  on  the  mistaken  zealots  who  have  repeated 
from  generation  to  generation  the  bloody  history  of 
Cain  and  Abel;  and,  saddened  with  these  mournful  re- 
flections, I  walked  on  as  chance  took  me,  until  the  si- 

[38] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

lence  all  around  insensibly  drew  me  out  from  my  own 
thoughts. 

I  had  reached  one  of  the  remote  streets,  in  which 
those  who  would  live  in  comfort  and  without  ostenta- 
tion, and  who  love  serious  reflection,  delight  to  find  a 
home.  There  were  no  shops  along  the  dimly  lighted 
street;  one  heard  no  sounds  but  of  distant  carriages, 
and  of  the  steps  of  some  of  the  inhabitants  returning 
quietly  home. 

I  instantly  recognized  the  street,  though  I  had  been 
there  only  once  before. 

That  was  two  years  ago.  I  was  walking  at  the  time 
by  the  side  of  the  Seine,  to  which  the  lights  on  the  quays 
and  bridges  gave  the  aspect  of  a  lake  surrounded  by  a 
garland  of  stars;  and  I  had  reached  the  Louvre,  when 
I  was  stopped  by  a  crowd  collected  near  the  parapet: 
they  had  gathered  round  a  child  of  about  six,  who  was 
crying,  and  I  asked  the  cause  of  his  tears. 

"It  seems  that  he  was  sent  to  walk  in  the  Tuileries," 
said  a  mason,  who  was  returning  from  his  work  with 
his  trowel  in  his  hand;  "the  servant  who  took  care  of 
him  met  with  some  friends  there,  and  told  the  child  to 
wait  for  him  while  he  went  to  get  a  drink;  but  I  sup- 
pose the  drink  made  him  more  thirsty,  for  he  has  not 
come  back,  and  the  child  cannot  find  his  way  home." 

"Why  do  they  not  ask  him  his  name,  and  where  he 
lives?" 

"They  have  been  doing  it  for  the  last  hour;  but  all 
he  can  say  is,  that  he  is  called  Charles,  and  that  his 
father  is  Monsieur  Duval — there  are  twelve  hundred 
Duvals  in  Paris." 

[39] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

"Then  he  does  not  know  in  what  part  of  the  town 
he  Hves?" 

"I  should  not  think,  indeed!  Don't  you  see  that  he 
is  a  gentleman's  child  ?  He  has  never  gone  out  except 
in  a  carriage  or  with  a  servant ;  he  does  not  know  what 
to  do  by  himself." 

Here  the  mason  was  interrupted  by  some  of  the  voices 
rising  above  the  others. 

"We  cannot  leave  him  in  the  street,"  said  some. 

"The  child-stealers  would  carry  him  off,"  continued 
others. 

"We  must  take  him  to  the  overseer." 

"Or  to  the  police-office." 

"That's  the  thing.    Come,  little  one!" 

But  the  child,  frightened  by  these  suggestions  of  dan- 
ger, and  at  the  names  of  police  and  overseer,  cried 
louder,  and  drew  back  toward  the  parapet.  In  vain 
they  tried  to  persuade  him;  his  fears  made  him  resist 
the  more,  and  the  most  eager  began  to  get  weary,  when 
the  voice  of  a  little  boy  was  heard  through  the  confu- 
sion. 

"I  know  him  well — I  do,"  said  he,  looking  at  the 
lost  child;  "he  belongs  in  our  part  of  the  town." 

"What  part  is  it?" 

"Yonder,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Boulevards — Rue 
des  Magasins." 

"And  you  have  seen  him  before?" 

"Yes,  yes!  he  belongs  to  the  great  house  at  the  end 
of  the  street,  where  there  is  an  iron  gate  with  gilt 
points." 

The  child  quickly  raised  his  head,  and  stopped  cry- 

[40] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

ing.  The  little  boy  answered  all  the  questions  that 
were  put  to  him,  and  gave  such  details  as  left  no  room 
for  doubt.  The  other  child  understood  him,  for  he 
went  up  to  him  as  if  to  put  himself  under  his  protection. 

"Then  you  can  take  him  to  his  parents?"  asked  the 
mason,  who  had  listened  with  real  interest  to  the  little 
boy's  account. 

'T  don't  care  if  I  do,"  replied  he;  "it's  the  way  I'm 
going." 

"Then  you  will  take  charge  of  him?" 

"He  has  only  to  come  with  me." 

And,  taking  up  the  basket  he  had  put  down  on  the 
pavement,  he  set  off  toward  the  postern-gate  of  the 
Louvre. 

The  lost  child  followed  him. 

"I  hope  he  will  take  him  right,"  said  I,  when  I  saw 
them  go  away. 

"Never  fear,"  replied  the  mason;  "the  Httle  one  in 
the  blouse  is  the  same  age  as  the  other;  but,  as  the  say- 
ing is,  'he  knows  black  from  white;'  poverty,  you  see, 
is  a  famous  schoolmistress!" 

The  crowd  dispersed.  For  my  part,  I  went  toward 
the  Louvre;  the  thought  came  into  my  head  to  follow 
the  two  children,  so  as  to  guard  against  any  mistake. 

I  was  not  long  in  overtaking  them ;  they  were  walk- 
ing side  by  side,  talking,  and  already  quite  familiar  with 
each  other.  The  contrast  in  their  dress  then  struck 
me.  Little  Duval  wore  one  of  those  fanciful  children's 
dresses  which  are  expensive  as  well  as  in  good  taste; 
his  coat  was  skilfully  fitted  to  his  figure,  his  trousers 
came  down  in  plaits  from  his  waist  to  his  boots  of  pol- 

[41I 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

ished  leather  with  mother-of-pearl  buttons,  and  his 
ringlets  were  half  hid  by  a  velvet  cap.  The  appearance 
of  his  guide,  on  the  contrary,  was  that  of  the  class  who 
dwell  on  the  extreme  borders  of  poverty,  but  who  there 
maintain  their  ground  with  no  surrender.  His  old 
blouse,  patched  with  pieces  of  different  shades,  indi- 
cated the  perseverance  of  an  industrious  mother  strug- 
gling against  the  wear  and  tear  of  time;  his  trousers 
were  become  too  short,  and  showed  his  stockings 
darned  over  and  over  again;  and  it  was  evident  that 
his  shoes  were  not  made  for  him. 

The  countenances  of  the  two  children  were  not  less 
different  than  their  dress.  That  of  the  first  was  deli- 
cate and  refined;  his  clear  blue  eye,  his  fair  skin,  and 
his  smiling  mouth  gave  him  a  charming  look  of  inno- 
cence and  happiness.  The  features  of  the  other,  on  the 
contrary,  had  something  rough  in  them;  his  eye  was 
quick  and  lively,  his  complexion  dark,  his  smile  less 
merry  than  shrewd ;  all  showed  a  mind  sharpened  by 
too  early  experience;  he  walked  boldly  through  the 
middle  of  the  streets  thronged  by  carriages,  and  fol- 
lowed their  countless  turnings  without  hesitation. 

I  found,  on  asking  him,  that  every  day  he  carried 
dinner  to  his  father,  who  was  then  working  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Seine ;  and  this  responsible  duty  had  made 
him  careful  and  prudent.  He  had  learned  those  hard 
but  forcible  lessons  of  necessity  which  nothing  can 
equal  or  supply  the  place  of.  Unfortunately,  the  wants 
of  his  poor  family  had  kept  him  from  school,  and  he 
seemed  to  feel  the  loss;  for  he  often  stopped  before  the 
printshops,  and  asked  his  companion  to  read  him  the 

[42] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

names  of  the  engravings.  In  this  way  we  reached  the 
Boulevard  Bonne  Nouvelle,  which  the  Httle  wanderer 
seemed  to  know  again.  Notwithstanding  his  fatigue, 
he  hurried  on;  he  was  agitated  by  mixed  feehngs;  at  the 
sight  of  his  house  he  uttered  a  cry,  and  ran  toward  the 
iron  gate  with  the  gilt  points;  a  lady  who  was  standing 
at  the  entrance  received  him  in  her  arms,  and  from  the 
exclamations  of  joy,  and  the  sound  of  kisses,  I  soon  per- 
ceived she  was  his  mother. 

Not  seeing  either  the  servant  or  child  return,  she  had 
sent  in  search  of  them  in  every  direction,  and  was  waiting 
for  them  in  intense  anxiety. 

I  explained  to  her  in  a  few  words  what  had  happened. 
She  thanked  me  warmly,  and  looked  round  for  the  little 
boy  who  had  recognized  and  brought  back  her  son; 
but  while  we  were  talking,  he  had  disappeared. 

It  was  for  the  first  time  since  then  that  I  had  come 
into  this  part  of  Paris.  Did  the  mother  continue  grate- 
ful? Had  the  children  met  again,  and  had  the  happy 
chance  of  their  first  meeting  lowered  between  them  that 
barrier  which  may  mark  the  different  ranks  of  men,  but 
should  not  divide  them  ? 

While  putting  these  questions  to  myself,  I  slackened 
my  pace,  and  fixed  my  eyes  on  the  great  gate,  which  I 
just  perceived.  Suddenly  I  saw  it  open,  and  two  chil- 
dren appeared  at  the  entrance.  Although  much  grown, 
I  recognized  them  at  first  sight;  they  were  the  child 
who  was  found  near  the  parapet  of  the  Louvre,  and  his 
young  guide.  But  the  dress  of  the  latter  was  greatly 
changed:  his  blouse  of  gray  cloth  was  neat,  and  even 
spruce,  and  was  fastened  round  the  waist  by  a  polished 

[43] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

leather  belt;  he  wore  strong  shoes,  but  made  for  his 
feet,  and  had  on  a  new  cloth  cap. 

Just  at  the  moment  I  saw  him,  he  held  in  his  two 
hands  an  enormous  bunch  of  lilacs,  to  which  his  com- 
panion was  trying  to  add  narcissuses  and  primroses; 
the  two  children  laughed,  and  parted  with  a  friendly 
good-by.  M.  Duval's  son  did  not  go  in  till  he  had  seen 
the  other  turn  the  comer  of  the  street. 

Then  I  accosted  the  latter,  and  reminded  him  of  our 
former  meeting;  he  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  and 
then  seemed  to  recollect  me. 

''Forgive  me  if  I  do  not  make  you  a  bow,"  said  he, 
merrily,  "but  I  want  both  my  hands  for  the  nosegay 
Monsieur  Charles  has  given  me." 

''You  are,  then,  become  great  friends?"  said  I. 

"Oh!  I  should  think  so,"  said  the  child;  "and  now 
my  father  is  rich  too!" 

"How's  that?" 

" Monsieur  Duval  lent  him  some  money;  he  has  taken 
a  shop,  where  he  works  on  his  own  account;  and,  as  for 
me,  I  go  to  school." 

"Yes,"  replied  I,  remarking  for  the  first  time  the 
cross  that  decorated  his  little  coat;  "and  I  see  that  you 
are  head-boy!" 

"Monsieur  Charles  helps  me  to  learn,  and  so  I  am 
come  to  be  the  first  in  the  class." 

"Are  you  now  going  to  your  lessons?" 

"Yes,  and  he  has  given  me  some  lilacs;  for  he  has  a 
garden  where  we  play  together,  and  where  my  mother 
can  always  have  flowers." 

"Then  it  is  the  same  as  if  it  were  partly  your  own." 

[44] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

"So  it  is!  Ah!  they  are  good  neighbors  indeed.  But 
here  I  am;  good-by,  sir." 

He  nodded  to  me  with  a  smile,  and  disappeared. 

I  went  on  with  my  walk,  still  pensive,  but  with  a  feel- 
ing of  relief.  If  I  had  elsewhere  witnessed  the  painful 
contrast  between  affluence  and  want,  here  I  had  found 
the  true  union  of  riches  and  poverty.  Hearty  good -will 
had  smoothed  down  the  more  rugged  inequalities  on 
both  sides,  and  had  opened  a  road  of  true  neighbor- 
hood and  fellowship  between  the  humble  workshop  and 
the  stately  mansion.  Instead  of  hearkening  to  the 
voice  of  interest,  they  had  both  listened  to  that  of  self- 
sacrifice,  and  there  was  no  place  left  for  contempt  or 
envy.  Thus,  instead  of  the  beggar  in  rags,  that  I  had 
seen  at  the  other  door  cursing  the  rich  man,  I  had 
found  here  the  happy  child  of  the  laborer  loaded  with 
flowers  and  blessing  him !  The  problem,  so  difficult  and 
so  dangerous  to  examine  into  with  no  regard  but  for  the 
rights  of  it,  I  had  just  seen  solved  by  love. 


[45] 


CHAPTER  V 

COMPENSATION 

Sunday,  May  2yth 

^APITAL  cities  have  one  thing  peculiar 
to  them :  their  days  of  rest  seem  to  be 
the  signal  for  a  general  dispersion  and 
flight.  Like  birds  that  are  just  re- 
stored to  liberty,  the  people  come  out 
of  their  stone  cages,  and  joyfully  fly 
toward  the  country.  It  is  who  shall 
find  a  green  hillock  for  a  seat,  or  the 
shade  of  a  wood  for  a  shelter;  they  gather  May  flow- 
ers, they  run  about  the  fields;  the  town  is  forgotten  until 
the  evening,  when  they  return  with  sprigs  of  bloom- 
ing hawthorn  in  their  hats,  and  their  hearts  gladdened 
by  pleasant  thoughts  and  recollections  of  the  past  day ; 
the  next  day  they  return  again  to  their  harness  and  to 
work. 

These  rural  adventures  are  most  remarkable  at 
Paris.  When  the  fine  weather  comes,  clerks,  shop- 
keepers, and  workingmen  look  forward  impatiently  for 
the  Sunday  as  the  day  for  trying  a  few  hours  of  this 
pastoral  life;  they  walk  through  sLx  miles  of  grocers' 
shops  and  public -houses  in  the  faubourgs,  in  the  sole 
hope  of  finding  a  real  turnip-field.  The  father  of  a 
family  begins  the  practical  education  of  his  son  by 

[46] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

showing  him  wheat  which  has  not  taken  the  form  of  a 
loaf,  and  cabbage  ''in  its  wild  state."  Heaven  only 
knows  the  encounters,  the  discoveries,  the  adventures 
that  are  met  with!  What  Parisian  has  not  had  his 
Odyssey  in  an  excursion  through  the  suburbs,  and 
would  not  be  able  to  write  a  companion  to  the  famous 
Travels  by  Land  and  by  Sea  from  Paris  to  St.  Cloud  ? 

We  do  not  now  speak  of  that  floating  population 
from  all  parts,  for  whom  our  French  Babylon  is  the 
caravansary  of  Europe:  a  phalanx  of  thinkers,  artists, 
men  of  business,  and  travellers,  who,  like  Homer's 
hero,  have  arrived  in  their  intellectual  country  after 
beholding  "many  peoples  and  cities;"  but  of  the  set- 
tled Parisian,  who  keeps  his  appointed  place,  and  lives 
on  his  own  floor  like  the  oyster  on  his  rock,  a  curious 
vestige  of  the  credulity,  the  slowness,  "and  the  simplicity 
of  bygone  ages. 

For  one  of  the  singularities  of  Paris  is,  that  it  unites 
twenty  populations  completely  different  in  character 
and  manners.  By  the  side  of  the  gypsies  of  commerce 
and  of  art,  who  wander  through  all  the  several  stages  of 
fortune  or  fancy,  live  a  quiet  race  of  people  with  an  in- 
dependence, or  with  regular  work,  whose  existence  re- 
sembles the  dial  of  a  clock,  on  which  the  same  hand 
points  by  turns  to  the  same  hours.  If  no  other  city  can 
show  more  brilliant  and  more  stirring  forms  of  life,  no 
other  contains  more  obscure  and  more  tranquil  ones. 
Great  cities  are  like  the  sea:  storms  agitate  only  the 
surface ;  if  you  go  to  the  bottom,  you  find  a  region  in- 
accessible to  the  tumult  and  the  noise. 

For  my  part,  I  have  settled  on  the  verge  of  this  re- 

[47] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

gion,  but  do  not  actually  live  in  it.  I  am  removed  from 
the  turmoil  of  the  v^orld,  and  live  in  the  shelter  of  soli- 
tude, but  without  being  able  to  disconnect  my  thoughts 
from  the  struggle  going  on.  I  follow  at  a  distance  all  its 
events  of  happiness  or  grief;  I  join  the  feasts  and  the 
funerals;  for  how  can  he  who  looks  on,  and  knows 
what  passes,  do  other  than  take  part  ?  Ignorance  alone 
can  keep  us  strangers  to  the  life  around  us :  selfishness 
itself  will  not  sufhce  for  that. 

These  reflections  I  made  to  myself  in  my  attic,  in  the 
intervals  of  the  various  household  works  to  which  a 
bachelor  is  forced  when  he  has  no  other  servant  than 
his  own  ready  will.  While  I  was  pursuing  my  deduc- 
tions, I  had  blacked  my  boots,  brushed  my  coat,  and 
tied  my  cravat;  I  had  at  last  arrived  at  the  important 
moment  when  we  pronounce  complacently  that  all  is 
finished,  and  that  well. 

A  grand  resolve  had  just  decided  me  to  depart  from 
my  usual  habits.  The  evening  before,  I  had  seen  by 
the  advertisements  that  the  next  day  was  a  holiday  at 
Sevres,  and  that  the  china  manufactory  would  be  open 
to  the  public.  I  was  tempted  by  the  beauty  of  the 
morning,  and  suddenly  decided  to  go  there. 

On  my  arrival  at  the  station  on  the  left  bank,  I  no- 
ticed the  crowd  hurrying  on  in  the  fear  of  being  late. 
Railroads,  besides  many  other  advantages,  possess  that 
of  teaching  the  French  punctuality.  They  will  sub- 
mit to  the  clock  when  they  are  convinced  that  it  is 
their  master;  they  will  learn  to  wait  when  they  find 
they  will  not  be  waited  for.  Social  virtues,  are,  in  a 
great  degree,  good  habits.    How  many  great  qualities 

[48] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

are  grafted  into  nations  by  their  geographical  position, 
by  political  necessity,  and  by  institutions!  Avarice  was 
destroyed  for  a  time  among  the  Lacedaemonians  by  the 
creation  of  an  iron  coinage,  too  heavy  and  too  bulky  to 
be  conveniently  hoarded. 

I  found  myself  in  a  carriage  with  two  middle-aged 
women  belonging  to  the  domestic  and  retired  class  of 
Parisians  I  have  spoken  of  above.  A  few  civilities  were 
sufficient  to  gain  me  their  confidence,  and  after  some 
minutes  I  was  acquainted  with  their  whole  history. 

They  were  two  poor  sisters,  left  orphans  at  fifteen, 
and  had  lived  ever  since,  as  those  who  work  for  their 
livelihood  must  live,  by  economy  and  privation.  For 
the  last  twenty  or  thirty  years  they  had  worked  in  jew- 
elry in  the  same  house;  they  had  seen  ten  masters  suc- 
ceed one  another,  and  make  their  fortunes  in  it,  with- 
out any  change  in  their  own  lot.  They  had  always 
lived  in  the  same  room,  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  pas- 
sages in  the  Rue  St.  Denis,  where  the  air  and  the  sun 
are  unknown.  They  began  their  work  before  daylight, 
went  on  with  it  till  after  nightfall,  and  saw  year  succeed 
to  year  without  their  lives  being  marked  by  any  other 
events  than  the  Sunday  service,  a  walk,  or  an  illness. 

The  younger  of  these  worthy  workwomen  was  forty, 
and  obeyed  her  sister  as  she  did  when  a  child.  The 
elder  looked  after  her,  took  care  of  her,  and  scolded  her 
with  a  mother's  tenderness.  At  first  it  was  amusing; 
afterward  one  could  not  help  seeing  something  afifecting 
in  these  two  gray-haired  children,  one  unable  to  leave 
off  the  habit  of  obeying,  the  other  that  of  protecting. 

And  it  was  not  in  that  alone  that  my  two  companions 
4  [49] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

seemed  younger  than  their  years;  they  knew  so  little 
that  their  wonder  never  ceased.  We  had  hardly  arrived 
at  Clamart  before  they  involuntarily  exclaimed,  like  the 
king  in  the  children's  game,  that  they  "did  not  think 
the  world  was  so  great"! 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  trusted  themselves  on 
a  railroad,  and  it  was  amusing  to  see  their  sudden 
shocks,  their  alarms,  and  their  courageous  determina- 
tions: everything  was  a  marvel  to  them !  They  had  re- 
mains of  youth  within  them,  which  made  them  sensible 
to  things  which  usually  only  strike  us  in  childhood. 
Poor  creatures!  they  had  still  the  feelings  of  another 
age,  though  they  had  lost  its  charms. 

But  was  there  not  something  holy  in  this  simplicity^ 
which  had  been  preserved  to  them  by  abstinence  from 
all  the  joys  of  life  ?  Ah !  accursed  be  he  who  first  had 
the  bad  courage  to  attach  ridicule  to  that  name  of  "old 
maid,"  which  recalls  so  many  images  of  grievous  de- 
ception, of  dreariness,  and  of  abandonment !  Accursed 
be  he  who  can  find  a  subject  for  sarcasm  in  involun- 
tary misfortune,  and  who  can  crown  gray  hairs  with 
thorns! 

The  two  sisters  were  called  Frances  and  Madeleine. 
This  day's  journey  was  a  feat  of  courage  without  ex- 
ample in  their  lives.  The  fever  of  the  times  had  infected 
them  unawares.  Yesterday  Madeleine  had  suddenly 
proposed  the  idea  of  the  expedition,  and  Frances  had 
accepted  it  immediately.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been 
better  not  to  yield  to  the  great  temptation  ofi^ered  by 
her  younger  sister ;  but  "we  have  our  follies  at  all  ages,'* 
as  the  prudent  Frances  philosophically  remarked.    As 

[50] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

for  Madeleine,  there  are  no  regrets  or  doubts  for  her; 
she  is  the  life-guardsman  of  the  establishment. 

"We  really  must  amuse  ourselves,"  said  she;  "we 
live  but  once." 

And  the  elder  sister  smiled  at  this  Epicurean  maxim. 
It  was  evident  that  the  fever  of  independence  was  at  its 
crisis  in  both  of  them. 

And  in  truth  it  would  have  been  a  great  pity  if  any 
scruple  had  interfered  with  their  happiness,  it  was  so 
frank  and  genial !  The  sight  of  the  trees,  which  seemed 
to  fly  on  both  sides  of  the  road,  caused  them  unceasing 
admiration.  The  meeting  a  train  passing  in  the  con- 
trary direction,  with  the  noise  and  rapidity  of  a  thun- 
derbolt, made  them  shut  their  eyes  and  utter  a  cry;  but 
it  had  already  disappeared !  They  look  around,  take 
courage  again,  and  express  themselves  full  of  astonish- 
ment at  the  marvel. 

Madeleine  declares  that  such  a  sight  is  worth  the  ex- 
pense of  the  journey,  and  Frances  would  have  agreed 
with  her  if  she  had  not  recollected,  with  some  little 
alarm,  the  deficit  which  such  an  expense  must  make  in 
their  budget.  The  three  francs  spent  upon  this  single 
expedition  were  the  savings  of  a  whole  week  of  work. 
Thus  the  joy  of  the  elder  of  the  two  sisters  was  mixed 
with  remorse;  the  prodigal  child  now  and  then  turned 
its  eyes  toward  the  back  street  of  St.  Denis. 

But  the  motion  and  the  succession  of  objects  distract 
her.  See  the  bridge  of  the  Val  surrounded  by  its  lovely 
landscape:  on  the  right,  Paris  with  its  grand  monu- 
ments, which  rise  through  the  fog,  or  sparkle  in  the  sun ; 
on  the  left,  Meudon,  with  its  villas,  its  woods,  its  vines, 

[51] 


EMir.E  SOUVKSIliE 

and  its  royal  castle!  The  two  workwomen  look  from 
one  window  lo  the  other  with  exclamations  of  delight. 
One  fellow-passenger  laughs  at  their  childish  wonder; 
but  to  mc  it  is  deef)ly  touching,  for  I  see  in  it  the  sign 
of  a  long  and  monotonous  seclusion:  they  are  the  pris- 
oners of  work,  who  have  recovered  liberty  and  fresh  air 
for  a  few  hours. 

At  last  the  train  sto[)S,  and  we  get  out.  T  show  the 
two  sisters  the  path  that  leads  to  Sevres,  between  the 
railway  and  the  gardens,  and  they  go  on  before,  while  I 
in(]uire  about  the  time  of  returning. 

1  soon  join  them  again  at  the  next  station,  where  they 
have  stopy)ed  at  the  little  garden  belonging  to  the  gate- 
keeper; both  are  already  in  deep  conversation  with  him 
while  he  digs  his  garden-borders,  and  marks  out  the 
places  for  flower-seeds.  He  informs  them  that  it  is  the 
time  for  hoeing  out  weeds,  for  making  grafts  and  lay- 
ers, for  sowing  annuals,  and  for  destroying  the  insects 
on  the  rose-trees.  Madeleine  has  on  the  sill  of  her  win- 
dow two  wooden  boxes,  in  which,  for  want  of  air  and 
sun,  she  has  never  been  able  to  make  anything  grow 
but  mustard  and  cress;  but  she  persuades  herself  that, 
thanks  to  this  information,  all  other  plants  may  hence- 
forth thrive  in  them.  At  last  the  gate-kee})er,  who  is 
sowing  a  border  with  mignonette,  gives  her  the  rest  of 
the  seeds  which  he  does  not  want,  and  the  old  maid 
goes  off  delighted,  and  begins  to  act  over  again  the 
dream  of  TY^rettc  and  her  can  of  milk,  with  these  flowers 
of  her  imagination. 

On  reaching  the  grove  of  acacias,  where  the  fair  was 
going  on,  I  lost  sight  of  the  two  sisters.    I  went  alone 

>  5^^  ] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

among  the  sights :  there  were  lotteries  going  on,  mounte- 
bank shows,  places  for  eating  and  drinking,  and  for 
shooting  with  the  cross-bow.  I  have  always  been  struck 
by  the  spirit  of  these  out-of-door  festivities.  In  draw- 
ing-room entertainments,  people  are  cold,  grave,  often 
listless,  and  most  of  those  who  go  there  are  brought 
together  by  habit  or  the  obligations  of  society;  in 
the  country  assemblies,  on  the  contrary,  you  only  find 
those  who  are  attracted  by  the  hope  of  enjoyment. 
There,  it  is  a  forced  conscription;  here,  they  are  volun- 
teers for  gayety!  Then,  how  easily  they  are  pleased! 
How  far  this  crowd  of  people  is  yet  from  knowing  that 
to  be  pleased  with  nothing,  and  to  look  down  on  every- 
thing, is  the  height  of  fashion  and  good  taste!  Doubt- 
less their  amusements  are  often  coarse;  elegance  and 
refinement  are  wanting  in  them ;  but  at  least  they  have 
heartiness.  Oh,  that  the  hearty  enjoyments  of  these 
merry-makings  could  be  retained  in  union  with  less  vul- 
gar feeling!  Formerly  religion  stamped  its  holy  charac- 
ter on  the  celebration  of  country  festivals,  and  purified 
the  pleasures  without  depriving  them  of  their  simplicity. 

The  hour  arrives  at  which  the  doors  of  the  porcelain 
manufactory  and  the  museum  of  pottery  are  open  to 
the  public.  I  meet  Frances  and  Madeleine  again  in 
the  first  room.  Frightened  at  finding  themselves  in  the 
midst  of  such  regal  magnificence,  they  hardly  dare  walk; 
they  speak  in  a  low  tone,  as  if  they  were  in  a  church. 

"We  are  in  the  king's  house,"  said  the  eldest  sister, 
forgetting  that  there  is  no  longer  a  king  in  France. 

I  encourage  them  to  go  on;  I  walk  first,  and  they 
make  up  their  minds  to  follow  me. 

[53] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

What  wonders  are  brought  together  in  this  collection! 
Here  we  see  clay  moulded  into  every  shape,  tinted  with 
every  color,  and  combined  with  every  sort  of  substance! 

Earth  and  wood  are  the  first  substances  worked  upon 
by  man,  and  seem  more  particularly  meant  for  his  use. 
They,  like  the  domestic  animals,  are  the  essential  ac- 
cessories of  his  life;  therefore  there  must  be  a  more 
intimate  connection  between  them  and  us.  Stone  and 
metals  require  long  preparations;  they  resist  our  first 
efforts,  and  belong' less  to  the  individual  than  to  com- 
munities. Earth  and  wood  are,  on  the  contrary,  the 
principal  instruments  of  the  isolated  being  who  must 
feed  and  shelter  himself. 

This,  doubtless,  makes  me  feel  so  much  interested  in 
the  collection  I  am  examining.  These  cups,  so  roughly 
modelled  by  the  savage,  admit  me  to  a  knowledge  of 
some  of  his  habits ;  these  elegant  yet  incorrectly  formed 
vases  of  the  Indian  tell  me  of  a  declining  intelligence, 
in  which  still  glimmers  the  twilight  of  what  was  once 
bright  sunshine;  these  jars,  loaded  with  arabesques, 
show  the  fancy  of  the  Arab  rudely  and  ignorantly  cop- 
ied by  the  Spaniard!  We. find  here  the  stamp  of  every 
race,  every  country,  and  every  age. 

My  companions  seemed  little  interested  in  these  his- 
torical associations;  they  looked  at  all  with  that  cred- 
ulous admiration  which  leaves  no  room  for  examination 
or  discussion.  Madeleine  read  the  name  written  under 
every  piece  of  workmanship,  and  her  sister  answered 
with  an  exclamation  of  wonder. 

In  this  way  we  reached  a  little  courtyard,  where  they 
had  thrown  away  the  fragments  of  some  broken  china. 

[54] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

Frances  perceived  a  colored  saucer  almost  whole,  of 
which  she  took  possession  as  a  record  of  the  visit  she 
was  making ;  henceforth  she  would  have  a  specimen  of 
the  Sevres  china,  ''which  is  only  made  for  kings!"  I 
would  not  undeceive  her  by  telling  her  that  the  products 
of  the  manufactory  are  sold  all  over  the  world,  and  that 
her  saucer,  before  it  was  cracked,  was  the  same  as  those 
that  are  bought  at  the  shops  for  sixpence !  Why  should 
I  destroy  the  illusions  of  her  humble  existence?  Are 
we  to  break  down  the  hedge-flowers  that  perfume  our 
paths  ?  Things  are  of tenest  nothing  in  themselves ;  the 
thoughts  we  attach  to  them  alone  give  them  value.  To 
rectify  innocent  mistakes,  in  order  to  recover  some  use- 
less reality,  is  to  be  like  those  learned  men  who  will  see 
nothing  in  a  plant  but  the  chemical  elements  of  which 
it  is  composed. 

On  leaving  the  manufactory,  the  two  sisters,  who  had 
taken  possession  of  me  with  the  freedom  of  artlessness, 
invited  me  to  share  the  luncheon  they  had  brought  with 
them.  I  declined  at  first,  but  they  insisted  with  so  much 
good-nature,  that  I  feared  to  pain  them,  and  with  some 
awkwardness  gave  way. 

We  had  only  to  look  for  a  convenient  spot.  I  led 
them  up  the  hill,  and  we  found  a  plot  of  grass  enamelled 
with  daisies,  and  shaded  by  two  walnut-trees. 

Madeleine  could  not  contain  herself  for  joy.  All  her 
life  she  had  dreamed  of  a  dinner  out  on  the  grass! 
While  helping  her  sister  to  take  the  provisions  from  the 
basket,  she  tells  me  of  all  her  expeditions  into  the  coun- 
try that  had  been  planned,  and  put  oflf.  Frances,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  brought  up  at  Montmorency,  and 

[55] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

before  she  became  an  orphan  she  had  often  gone  back 
to  her  nurse's  house.  That  which  had  the  attraction  of 
novelty  for  her  sister,  had  for  her  the  charm  of  recollec- 
tion. She  told  of  the  vintage  harvests  to  which  her  par- 
ents had  taken  her;  the  rides  on  Mother  Luret's  don- 
key, that  they  could  not  make  go  to  the  right  without 
pulling  him  to  the  left;  the  cherry-gathering;  and  the 
sails  on  the  lake  in  the  innkeeper's  boat. 

These  recollections  have  all  the  charm  and  freshness 
of  childhood.  Frances  recalls  to  herself  less  what  she 
has  seen  than  what  she  has  felt.  While  she  is  talking 
the  cloth  is  laid,  and  we  sit  down  under  a  tree.  Before 
us  winds  the  valley  of  Sevres,  its  many-storied  houses 
abutting  upon  the  gardens  and  the  slopes  of  the  hill;  on 
the  other  side  spreads  out  the  park  of  St.  Cloud,  with 
its  magnificent  clumps  of  trees  interspersed  with  mead- 
ows; above  stretch  the  heavens  like  an  immense  ocean, 
in  which  the  clouds  are  sailing!  I  look  at  this  beautiful 
country,  and  I  listen  to  these  good  old  maids;  I  admire, 
and  I  am  interested ;  and  time  passes  gently  on  without 
my  perceiving  it. 

At  last  the  sun  sets,  and  we  have  to  think  of  return- 
ing. While  Madeleine  and  Frances  clear  away  the 
dinner,  I  walk  down  to  the  manufactory  to  ask  the  hour. 
The  merrymaking  is  at  its  height;  the  blasts  of  the 
trombones  resound  from  the  band  under  the  acacias. 
For  a  few  moments  I  forget  myself  with  looking  about ; 
but  I  have  promised  the  two  sisters  to  take  them  back 
to  the  Bellevue  station;  the  train  cannot  wait,  and  I 
make  haste  to  climb  the  path  again  which  leads  to  the 
walnut-trees. 

[56] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

Just  before  I  reached  them,  I  heard  voices  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hedge.  Madeleine  and  Frances  were 
speaking  to  a  poor  girl  whose  clothes  were  burned,  her 
hands  blackened,  and  her  face  tied  up  with  blood- 
stained bandages.  I  saw  that  she  was  one  of  the  girls 
employed  at  the  gunpowder  mills,  which  are  built 
further  up  on  the  common.  An  explosion  had  taken 
place  a  few  days  before;  the  girl's  mother  and  elder 
sister  were  killed ;  she  herself  escaped  by  a  miracle,  and 
was  now  left  without  any  means  of  support.  She  told 
all  this  with  the  resigned  and  unhopeful  manner  of  one 
who  has  always  been  accustomed  to  suffer.  The  two 
sisters  were  much  affected ;  I  saw  them  consulting  with 
each  other  in  a  low  tone:  then  Frances  took  thirty 
sous  out  of  a  little  coarse  silk  purse,  which  was  all  they 
had  left,  and  gave  them  to  the  poor  girl.  I  hastened  on 
to  that  side  of  the  hedge;  but,  before  I  reached  it,  I 
met  the  two  old  sisters,  who  called  out  to  me  that  they 
would  not  return  by  the  railway,  but  on  foot! 

I  then  understood  that  the  money  they  had  meant  for 
the  journey  had  just  been  given  to  the  beggar!  Good, 
like  evil,  is  contagious:  I  run  to  the  poor  wounded  girl, 
give  her  the  sum  that  was  to  pay  for  my  own  place,  and 
return  to  Frances  and  Madeleine,  and  tell  them  I  will 
walk  with  them. 


I  am  just  come  back  from  taking  them  home;  and 
have  left  them  delighted  with  their  day,  the  recollection 
of  which  will  long  make  them  happy. 

This  morning  I  was  pitying  those  whose  lives  are 

[57] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

obscure  and  joyless;  now,  I  understand  that  God  has 
provided  a  compensation  with  every  trial.  The  small- 
est pleasure  derives  from  rarity  a  relish  otherwise  un- 
known. Enjoyment  is  only  what  we  feel  to  be  such, 
and  the  luxurious  man  feels  no  longer:  satiety  has  de- 
stroyed his  appetite,  while  privation  preserves  to  the 
other  that  first  of  earthly  blessings :  the  being  easily 
made  happy.  Oh,  that  I  could  persuade  every  one  of 
this!  that  so  the  rich  might  not  abuse  their  riches,  and 
that  the  poor  might  have  patience.  If  happiness  is  the 
rarest  of  blessings,  it  is  because  the  reception  of  it  is  the 
rarest  of  virtues. 

Madeleine  and  Frances!  ye  poor  old  maids  whose 
courage,  resignation,  and  generous  hearts  are  your  only 
wealth,  pray  for  the  wretched  who  give  themselves  up 
to  despair;  for  the  unhappy  who  hate  and  envy;  and 
for  the  unfeeling  into  whose  enjoyments  no  pity  en- 
ters. 


[58] 


CHAPTER  VI 


UNCLE  MAURICE 


June  yth,  Four  O^ clock  A.M. 

AM  not  surprised  at  hearing,  when  I 
awake,  the  birds  singing  so  joyfully 
outside  my  window;  it  is  only  by  liv- 
ing, as  they  and  I  do,  in  a  top  story, 
that  one  comes  to  know  how  cheerful 
the  mornings  really  are  up  among  the 
roofs.  It  is  there  that  the  sun  sends 
his  first  rays,  and  the  breeze  comes 
with  the  fragrance  of  the  gardens  and  woods;  there  that 
a  wandering  butterfly  sometimes  ventures  among  the 
flowers  of  the  attic,  and  that  the  songs  of  the  indus- 
trious workwoman  welcome  the  dawn  of  day.  The 
lower  stories  are  still  deep  in  sleep,  silence,  and  shadow, 
while  here  labor,  light,  and  song  already  reign. 

What  life  is  around  me!  See  the  swallow  returning 
from  her  search  for  food,  with  her  beak  full  of  insects 
for  her  young  ones;  the  sparrows  shake  the  dew  from 
their  wings  while  they  chase  one  another  in  the  sun- 
shine; and  my  neighbors  throw  open  their  windows, 
and  welcome  the  morning  with  their  fresh  faces!  De- 
lightful hour  of  waking,  when  everything  returns  to 
feeling  and  to  motion ;  when  the  first  light  of  day  strikes 
upon  creation,  and  brings  it  to  life  again,  as  the  magic 

[59] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

wand  struck  the  palace  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty  in  the 
wood!  It  is  a  moment  of  rest  from  every  misery;  the 
sufferings  of  the  sick  are  allayed,  and  a  breath  of  hope 
enters  into  the  hearts  of  the  despairing.  But,  alas!  it 
is  but  a  short  respite!  Everything  will  soon  resume  its 
wonted  course:  the  great  human  machine,  with  its  long 
strains,  its  deep  gasps,  its  collisions,  and  its  crashes, 
will  be  again  put  in  motion. 

The  tranquillity  of  this  first  morning  hour  reminds 
me  of  that  of  our  first  years  of  life.  Then,  too,  the  sun 
shines  brightly,  the  air  is  fragrant,  and  the  illusions  of 
youth — those  birds  of  our  life's  morning — sing  around 
us.  Why  do  they  fly  away  when  we  are  older  ?  Where 
do  this  sadness  and  this  solitude,  which  gradually  steal 
upon  us,  come  from  ?  The  course  seems  to  be  the  same 
with  individuals  and  with  communities:  at  starting,  so 
readily  made  happy,  so  easily  enchanted;  and  at  the 
goal,  the  bitter  disappointment  or  reality!  The  road, 
which  began  among  hawthorns  and  primroses,  ends 
speedily  in  deserts  or  in  precipices!  Why  is  there  so 
much  confidence  at  first,  so  much  doubt  at  last?  Has, 
then,  the  knowledge  of  life  no  other  end  but  to  make  it 
unfit  for  happiness?  Must  we  condemn  ourselves  to 
ignorance  if  we  would  preserve  hope?  Is  the  world 
and  is  the  individual  man  intended,  after  all,  to  find 
rest  only  in  an  eternal  childhood  ? 

How  many  times  have  I  asked  myself  these  ques- 
tions! Solitude  has  the  advantage  or  the  danger  of 
making  us  continually  search  more  deeply  into  the 
same  ideas.  As  our  discourse  is  only  with  ourself,  we. 
always  give  the  same  direction  to  the  conversation ;  we 

[60] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

are  not  called  to  turn  it  to  the  subject  which  occupies 
another  mind,  or  interests  another's  feelings;  and  so 
an  involuntary  inclination  makes  us  return  forever  to 
knock  at  the  same  doors! 

I  interrupted  my  reflections  to  put  my  attic  in  order. 
I  hate  the  look  of  disorder,  because  it  shows  either  a 
contempt  for  details  or  an  unaptness  for  spiritual  life. 
To  arrange  the  things  among  which  we  have  to  live,  is 
to  establish  the  relation  of  property  and  of  use  between 
them  and  us :  it  is  to  lay  the  foundation  of  those  habits 
without  which  man  tends  to  the  savage  state.  What,  in 
fact,  is  social  organization  but  a  series  of  habits,  settled 
in  accordance  with  the  dispositions  of  our  nature  ? 

I  distrust  both  the  intellect  and  the  morality  of  those 
people  to  whom  disorder  is  of  no  consequence — who 
can  live  at  ease  in  an  Augean  stable.  What  surrounds 
us,  reflects  more  or  less  that  which  is  within  us.  The 
mind  is  like  one  of  those  dark  lanterns  which,  in  spite 
of  everything,  still  throw  some  light  around.  If  our 
tastes  did  not  reveal  our  character,  they  would  be  no 
longer  tastes,  but  instincts. 

While  I  was  arranging  everything  in  my  attic,  my 
eyes  rested  on  the  little  almanac  hanging  over  my 
chimney-piece.  I  looked  for  the  day  of  the  month,  and 
I  saw  these  words  written  in  large  letters:  "Fete 
DiEu!" 

It  is  to-day!  In  this  great  city,  where  there  are  no 
longer  any  public  religious  solemnities,  there  is  noth- 
ing to  remind  us  of  it;  but  it  is,  in  truth,  the  period  so 
happily  chosen  by  the  primitive  church.  "The  day 
kept  in  honor  of  the  Creator,"  says  Chateaubriand, 

[6i] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

"happens  at  a  time  when  the  heaven  and  the  earth  de- 
clare His  power,  when  the  woods  and  fields  are  full  of 
new  life,  and  all  are  united  by  the  happiest  ties;  there 
is  not  a  single  widowed  plant  in  the  fields." 

What  recollections  these  words  have  just  awakened! 
I  left  off  what  I  was  about,  I  leaned  my  elbows  on 
the  window-sill,  and,  with  my  head  between  my  two 
hands,  I  went  back  in  thought  to  the  little  town  where 
the  first  days  of  my  childhood  were  passed. 

The  Fete  Dieu  was  then  one  of  the  great  events  of  my 
life !  It  was  necessary  to  be  diligent  and  obedient  a  long 
time  beforehand,  to  deserve  to  share  in  it.  I  still  recol- 
lect with  what  raptures  of  expectation  I  got  up  on  the 
morning  of  the  day.  There  was  a  holy  joy  in  the  air. 
The  neighbors,  up  earlier  than  usual,  hung  cloths  with 
flowers  or  figures,  worked  in  tapestry,  along  the  streets. 
I  went  from  one  to  another,  by  turns  admiring  religious 
scenes  of  the  Middle  Ages,  mythological  compositions  of 
the  Renaissance,  old  battles  in  the  style  of  Louis  XIV, 
and  the  Arcadias  of  Madame  de  Pompadour.  All  this 
world  of  phantoms  seemed  to  be  coming  forth  from  the 
dust  of  past  ages,  to  assist — silent  and  motionless — at 
the  holy  ceremony.  I  looked,  alternately  in  fear  and 
wonder,  at  those  terrible  warriors  with  their  swords 
always  raised,  those  beautiful  huntresses  shooting  the 
arrow  which  never  left  the  bow,  and  those  shepherds  in 
satin  breeches  always  playing  the  flute  at  the  feet  of  the 
perpetually  smiling  shepherdess.  Sometimes,  when  the 
wind  blew  behind  these  hanging  pictures,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  the  figures  themselves  moved,  and  I  watched 
to  see  them  detach  themselves  from  the  wall,  and  take 

[62] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

their  places  in  the  procession!  But  these  impressions 
were  vague  and  transitory.  The  feehng  that  predomi- 
nated over  every  other  was  that  of  an  overflowing  yet 
quiet  joy.  In  the  midst  of  all  the  floating  draperies,  the 
scattered  flowers,  the  voices  of  the  maidens,  and  the 
gladness  which,  like  a  perfume,  exhaled  from  every- 
thing, you  felt  transported  in  spite  of  yourself.  The 
joyful  sounds  of  the  festival  were  repeated  in  your 
heart,  in  a  thousand  melodious  echoes.  You  were  more 
indulgent,  more  holy,  more  loving!  For  God  was  not 
only  manifesting  himself  without,  but  also  within  us. 

And  then  the  altars  for  the  occasion!  the  flowery 
arbors!  the  triumphal  arches  made  of  green  boughs! 
What  competition  among  the  different  parishes  for  the 
erection  of  the  resting-places*  where  the  procession  was 
to  halt!  It  was  who  should  contribute  the  rarest  and 
the  most  beautiful  of  his  possessions ! 

It  was  there  I  made  my  first  sacrifice ! 

The  wreaths  of  flowers  were  arranged,  the  candles 
lighted,  and  the  Tabernacle  t  dressed  with  roses;  but 
one  was  wanting  fit  to  crown  the  whole !  All  the  neigh- 
boring gardens  had  been  ransacked.  I  alone  possessed 
a  flower  worthy  of  such  a  place.  It  was  on  the  rose-tree 
given  me  by  my  mother  on  my  birthday.  I  had  watched 
it  for  several  months,  and  there  was  no  other  bud  to 
blow  on  the  tree.  There  it  was,  half  open,  in  its  mossy 
nest,  the  object  of  such  long  expectations,  and  of  all  a 
child's  pride!    I  hesitated  for  some  moments.    No  one 

*The  reposoirs,  or  temporary  altars,  on  which  the  consecrated  ele- 
ments are  placed  while  the  procession  halts, 
t  An  ornamental  case  or  cabinet,  which  contains  the  bread  and  wine. 

[63] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

had  asked  me  for  it;  I  might  easily  avoid  losing  it.  I 
should  hear  no  reproaches,  but  one  rose  noiselessly 
within  me.  When  every  one  else  had  given  all  they  had, 
ought  I  alone  to  keep  back  my  treasure?  Ought  I  to 
grudge  to  God  one  of  the  gifts  which,  like  all  the  rest,  I 
had  received  from  him  ?  At  this  last  thought  I  plucked 
the  flower  from  the  stem,  and  took  it  to  put  at  the  top 
of  the  Tabernacle.  Ah!  why  does  the  recollection  of 
this  sacrifice,  which  was  so  hard  and  yet  so  sweet  to  me, 
now  make  me  smile?  Is  it  so  certain  that  the  value  of 
a  gift  is  in  itself,  rather  than  in  the  intention?  If  the 
cup  of  cold  water  in  the  gospel  is  remembered  to  the 
poor  man,  why  should  not  the  flower  be  remembered  to 
the  child?  Let  us  not  look  down  upon  the  child's  sim- 
ple act  of  generosity;  it  is  these  which  accustom  the 
soul  to  self-denial  and  to  sympathy.  I  cherished  this 
moss-rose  a  long  time  as  a  sacred  talisman;  I  had  rea- 
son to  cherish  it  always,  as  the  record  of  the  first  victory 
won  over  myself. 

It  is  now  many  years  since  I  witnessed  the  celebra- 
tion of  the  Fete  Dieii;  but  should  I  again  feel  in  it  the 
happy  sensations  of  former  days?  I  still  remember 
how,  when  the  procession  had  passed,  I  walked  through 
the  streets  strewed  with  flowers  and  shaded  with  green 
boughs.  I  felt  intoxicated  by  the  lingering  perfumes  of 
the  incense,  mixed  with  the  fragrance  of  syringas,  jessa- 
mine, and  roses,  and  I  seemed  no  longer  to  touch  the 
ground  as  I  went  along.  I  smiled  at  everything;  the 
whole  world  was  Paradise  in  my  eyes,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  that  God  was  floating  in  the  air! 

Moreover,  this  feeling  was  not  the  excitement  of  the 

[64] 


AN  *' ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

moment :  it  might  be  more  intense  on  certain  days,  but 
at  the  same  time  it  continued  through  the  ordinary 
course  of  my  life.  Many  years  thus  passed  for  me  in 
an  expansion  of  heart,  and  a  trustfulness  which  pre- 
vented sorrow,  if  not  from  coming,  at  least  from  staying 
with  me.  Sure  of  not  being  alone,  I  soon  took  heart 
again,  like  the  child  who  recovers  its  courage,  because 
it  hears  its  mother's  voice  close  by.  Why  have  I  lost 
that  confidence  of  my  childhood?  Shall  I  never  feel 
again  so  deeply  that  God  is  here  ? 

How  strange  the  association  of  our  thoughts !  A  day 
of  the  month  recalls  my  infancy,  and  see,  all  the  recol- 
lections of  my  former  years  are  growing  up  around  me! 
Why  was  I  so  happy  then  ?  I  consider  well,  and  nothing 
is  sensibly  changed  in  my  condition.  I  possess,  as  I  did 
then,  health  and  my  daily  bread ;  the  only  difference  is, 
that  I  am  now  responsible  for  myself!  As  a  child,  I 
accepted  life  when  it  came ;  another  cared  and  provided 
for  me.  So  long  as  I  fulfilled  my  present  duties  I  was 
at  peace  within,  and  I  left  the  future  to  the  prudence 
of  my  father!  My  destiny  was  a  ship,  in  the  directing 
of  which  I  had  no  share,  and  in  which  I  sailed  as  a 
common  passenger.  There  was  the  whole  secret  of 
childhood's  happy  security.  Since  then  worldly  wisdom 
has  deprived  me  of  it.  When  my  lot  was  intrusted  to 
my  own  and  sole  keeping,  I  thought  to  make  myself 
master  of  it  by  means  of  a  long  insight  into  the  future. 
I  have  filled  the  present  hour  with  anxieties,  by  occu- 
pying my  thoughts  with  the  future;  I  have  put  my 
judgment  in  the  place  of  Providence,  and  the  happy 
child  is  changed  into  the  anxious  man. 
5  [65] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

A  melancholy  course,  yet  perhaps  an  important  les- 
son. Who  knows  that,  if  I  had  trusted  more  to  Him 
who  rules  the  world,  I  should  not  have  been  spared  all 
this  anxiety?  It  may  be  that  happiness  is  not  possible 
here  below,  except  on  condition  of  living  like  a  child, 
giving  ourselves  up  to  the  duties  of  each  day  as  it 
comes,  and  trusting  in  the  goodness  of  our  heavenly 
Father  for  all  besides. 

This  reminds  me  of  my  Uncle  Maurice!  Whenever  I 
have  need  to  strengthen  myself  in  all  that  is  good,  I  turn 
my  thoughts  to  him;  I  see  again  the  gentle  expression 
of  his  half-smiling,  half-mournful  face;  I  hear  his 
voice,  always  soft  and  soothing  as  a  breath  of  summer! 
The  remembrance  of  him  protects  my  life,  and  gives 
it  light.  He,  too,  was  a  saint  and  martyr  here  below. 
Others  have  pointed  out  the  path  of  heaven;  he  has 
taught  us  to  see  those  of  earth  aright. 

But,  except  the  angels,  who  are  charged  with  noting 
down  the  sacrifices  performed  in  secret,  and  the  virtues 
which  are  never  known,  who  has  ever  heard  of  my 
Uncle  Maurice  ?  Perhaps  I  alone  remember  his  name, 
and  still  recall  his  history. 

Well!  I  will  write  it,  not  for  others,  but  for  myself! 
They  say  that,  at  the  sight  of  the  Apollo,  the  body  erects 
itself  and  assumes  a  more  dignified  attitude:  in  the 
same  way,  the  soul  should  feel  itself  raised  and  enno- 
bled by  the  recollection  of  a  good  man's  life ! 

A  ray  of  the  rising  sun  hghts  up  the  little  table  on 
which  I  write;  the  breeze  brings  me  in  the  scent  of  the 
mignonette,  and  the  swallows  wheel  about  my  window 
with  joyful  twitterings.    The  image  of  my  Uncle  Mau- 

[66] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

rice  will  be  in  its  proper  place  amid  the  songs,  the  sun- 
shine, and  the  fragrance. 

Seven  o^ clock. — It  is  with  men's  lives  as  with  days: 
some  dawn  radiant  with  a  thousand  colors,  others  dark 
with  gloomy  clouds.  That  of  my  Uncle  Maurice  was 
one  of  the  latter.  He  was  so  sickly,  when  he  came  into 
the  world,  that  they  thought  he  must  die;  but  not- 
withstanding these  anticipations,  which  might  be  called 
hopes,  he  continued  to  live,  suffering  and  deformed. 

He  was  deprived  of  all  joys  as  well  as  of  all  the  at- 
tractions of  childhood.  He  was  oppressed  because  he 
was  weak,  and  laughed  at  for  his  deformity.  In  vain 
the  little  hunchback  opened  his  arms  to  the  world :  the 
world  scoffed  at  him,  and  went  its  way. 

Hovs^ever,  he  still  had  his  mother,  and  it  was  to  her 
that  the  child  directed  all  the  feelings  of  a  heart  repelled 
by  others.  With  her  he  found  shelter,  and  was  happy, 
till  he  reached  the  age  when  a  man  must  take  his  place 
in  life;  and  Maurice  had  to  content  himself  with  that 
which  others  had  refused  with  contempt.  His  educa- 
tion would  have  qualified  him  for  any  course  of  life; 
and  he  became  an  octroi-clerk  *  in  one  of  the  little  toll- 
houses at  the  entrance  of  his  native  town. 

He  was  always  shut  up  in  this  dwelling  of  a  few  feet 
square,  with  no  relaxation  from  the  office  accounts  but 
reading  and  his  mother's  visits.  On  fine  summer  days 
she  came  to  work  at  the  door  of  his  hut,  under  the  shade 
of  a  clematis  planted  by  Maurice.  And,  even  when  she 
was  silent,  her  presence  was  a  pleasant  change  for  the 

*The  octroi  is  the  tax  on  provisions  levied  at  the  entrance  of  the 
town. 

[67] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

hunchback ;  he  heard  the  cHnking  of  her  long  knitting- 
needles;  he  saw  her  mild  and  mournful  profile,  which 
reminded  him  of  so  many  courageously-borne  trials; 
he  could  every  now  and  then  rest  his  hand  affectionately 
on  that  bowed  neck,  and  exchange  a  smile  with  her! 

This  comfort  was  soon  to  be  taken  from  him.  His 
old  mother  fell  sick,  and  at  the  end  of  a  few  days  he  had 
to  give  up  all  hope.  Maurice  was  overcome  at  the  idea 
of  a  separation  which  would  henceforth  leave  him 
alone  on  earth,  and  abandoned  himself  to  boundless 
grief.  He  knelt  by  the  bedside  of  the  dying  woman,  he 
called  her  by  the  fondest  names,  he  pressed  her  in  his 
arms,  as  if  he  could  so  keep  her  in  life.  His  mother 
tried  to  return  his  caresses,  and  to  answer  him ;  but  her 
hands  were  cold,  her  voice  was  already  gone.  She  could 
only  press  her  lips  against  the  forehead  of  her  son, 
heave  a  sigh,  and  close  her  eyes  forever! 

They  tried  to  take  Maurice  away,  but  he  resisted 
them  and  threw  himself  on  that  now  motionless  form. 

"Dead!"  cried  he;  ''dead!  She  who  had  never  left 
me,  she  who  was  the  only  one  in  the  world  who  loved 
me!  You,  my  mother,  dead!  What  then  remains  for 
me  here  below  ?  " 

A  stifled  voice  replied : 

"God!" 

Maurice,  startled,  raised  himself!  Was  that  a  last 
sigh  from  the  dead,  or  his  own  conscience,  that  had 
answered  him?  He  did  not  seek  to  know,  but  he  un- 
derstood the  answer,  and  accepted  it. 

It  was  then  that  I  first  knew  him.  I  often  went  to 
see  him  in  his  little  toll-house.    He  joined  in  my  child- 

[68] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

ish  games,  told  me  his  fmest  stories,  and  let  me  gather 
his  flowers.  Deprived  as  he  was  of  all  external  attrac- 
tiveness, he  showed  himself  full  of  kindness  to  all  who 
came  to  him,  and,  though  he  never  would  put  himself 
forward,  he  had  a  welcome  for  everyone.  Deserted, 
despised,  he  submitted  to  everything  with  a  gentle  pa- 
tience ;  and  while  he  was  thus  stretched  on  the  cross  of 
life,  amid  the  insults  of  his  executioners,  he  repeated 
with  Christ,  "Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not 
what  they  do." 

No  other  clerk  showed  so  much  honesty,  zeal,  and 
intelligence;  but  those  who  otherwise  might  have  pro- 
moted him  as  his  services  deserved  were  repelled  by 
his  deformity.  As  he  had  no  patrons,  he  found  his 
claims  were  always  disregarded.  They  preferred  be- 
fore him  those  who  were  better  able  to  make  themselves 
agreeable,  and  seemed  to  be  granting  him  a  favor  when 
letting  him  keep  the  humble  ofhce  which  enabled  him 
to  live.  Uncle  Maurice  bore  injustice  as  he  had  borne 
contempt;  unfairly  treated  by  men,  he  raised  his  eyes 
higher,  and  trusted  in  the  justice  of  Him  who  cannot 
be  deceived. 

He  lived  in  an  old  house  in  the  suburb,  where  many 
work-people,  as  poor  but  not  as  forlorn  as  he,  also  lodged. 
Among  these  neighbors  there  was  a  single  woman,  who 
lived  by  herself  in  a  little  garret,  into  which  came  both 
wind  and  rain.  She  was  a  young  girl,  pale,  silent,  and 
with  nothing  to  recommend  her  but  her  wretchedness 
and  her  resignation  to  it.  She  was  never  seen  speaking 
to  any  other  woman,  and  no  song  cheered  her  garret. 
She  worked  without  interest  and  without  relaxation; 

[69] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

a  depressing  gloom  seemed  to  envelop  her  like  a  shroud. 
Her  dejection  affected  Maurice;  he  attempted  to  speak 
to  her;  she  replied  mildly,  but  in  few  words.  It  was 
easy  to  see  that  she  preferred  her  silence  and  her  soli- 
tude to  the  little  hunchback's  good-will;  he  perceived 
it,  and  said  no  more. 

But  Toinette's  needle  was  hardly  sufficient  for  her 
support,  and  presently  work  failed  her!  Maurice 
learned  that  the  poor  girl  was  in  want  of  everything, 
and  that  the  tradesmen  refused  to  give  her  credit.  He 
immediately  went  to  them  privately  and  engaged  to  pay 
them  for  what  they  supplied  Toinette  with. 

Things  went  on  in  this  way  for  several  months.  The 
young  dressmaker  continued  out  of  work,  until  she  was 
at  last  frightened  at  the  bills  she  had  contracted  with 
the  shopkeepers.  When  she  came  to  an  explanation 
with  them,  everything  was  discovered.  Her  first  im- 
pulse was  to  run  to  Uncle  Maurice,  and  thank  him  on 
her  knees.  Her  habitual  reserve  had  given  way  to  a 
burst  of  deepest  feeling.  It  seemed  as  if  gratitude  had 
melted  all  the  ice  of  that  numbed  heart. 

Being  now  no  longer  embarrassed  with  a  secret,  the 
little  hunchback  could  give  greater  efficacy  to  his  good 
offices.  Toinette  became  to  him  a  sister,  for  whose 
wants  he  had  a  right  to  provide.  It  was  the  first  time 
since  the  death  of  his  mother  that  he  had  been  able  to 
share  his  life  with  another.  The  young  woman  received 
his  attentions  with  feeling,  but  with  reserve.  All  Mau- 
rice's efforts  were  insufficient  to  dispel  her  gloom:  she 
seemed  touched  by  his  kindness,  and  sometimes  ex- 
pressed her  sense  of  it  with  warmth;    but  there  she 

[70] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

stopped.  Her  heart  was  a  closed  book,  which  the  little 
hunchback  might  bend  over,  but  could  not  read.  In 
truth  he  cared  little  to  do  so ;  he  gave  himself  up  to  the 
happiness  of  being  no  longer  alone,  and  took  Toinette 
such  as  her  long  trials  had  made  her;  he  loved  her  as 
she  was,  and  wished  for  nothing  else  but  still  to  enjoy 
her  company. 

This  thought  insensibly  took  possession  of  his  mind, 
to  the  exclusion  of  all  besides.  The  poor  girl  was  as 
forlorn  as  himself;  she  had  become  accustomed  to  the 
deformity  of  the  hunchback,  and  she  seemed  to  look  on 
him  with  an  affectionate  sympathy!  What  more  could 
he  wish  for?  Until  then,  the  hopes  of  making  himself 
acceptable  to  a  helpmate  had  been  repelled  by  Maurice 
as  a  dream;  but  chance  seemed  willing  to  make  it  a 
reality.  After  much  hesitation  he  took  courage,  and  de- 
cided to  speak  to  her. 

It  was  evening;  the  little  hunchback,  in  much  agita- 
tion, directed  his  steps  toward  the  workwoman's  gar- 
ret. Just  as  he  was  about  to  enter,  he  thought  he  heard 
a  strange  voice  pronouncing  the  maiden's  name.  He 
quickly  pushed  open  the  door,  and  perceived  Toinette 
weeping,  and  leaning  on  the  shoulder  of  a  young  man 
in  the  dress  of  a  sailor. 

At  the  sight  of  my  uncle,  she  disengaged  herself 
quickly,  and  ran  to  him,  crying  out : 

"Ah!  come  in — come  in!  It  is  he  that  I  thought  was 
dead:  it  is  Julien;  it  is  my  betrothed ! " 

Maurice  tottered,  and  drew  back.  A  single  word 
had  told  him  all ! 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  ground  shook  and  his 

[71] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

heart  was  about  to  break ;  but  the  same  voice  that  he 
had  heard  by  his  mother's  deathbed  again  sounded  in 
his  ears,  and  he  soon  recovered  himself.  God  was  still 
his  friend ! 

He  himself  accompanied  the  newly-married  pair  on 
the  road  when  they  left  the  town,  and,  after  wishing 
them  all  the  happiness  which  was  denied  to  him,  he  re- 
turned with  resignation  to  the  old  house  in  the  suburb. 

It  was  there  that  he  ended  his  life,  forsaken  by  men, 
but  not  as  he  said  by  the  Father  which  is  in  heaven. 
He  felt  His  presence  everywhere ;  it  was  to  him  in  the 
place  of  all  else.  When  he  died,  it  was  with  a  smile, 
and  like  an  exile  setting  out  for  his  own  country.  He 
who  had  consoled  him  in  poverty  and  ill-health,  when 
he  was  suffering  from  injustice  and  forsaken  by  all,  had 
made  death  a  gain  and  blessing  to  him. 

Eight  o^clock. — All  I  have  just  written  has  pained 
me!  Till  now  I  have  looked  into  life  for  instruction 
how  to  live.  Is  it  then  true  that  human  maxims  are  not 
always  sufficient?  that  beyond  goodness,  prudence, 
moderation,  humility,  self-sacrifice  itself,  there  is  one 
great  truth,  which  alone  can  face  great  misfortunes? 
and  that,  if  man  has  need  of  virtues  for  others,  he  has 
need  of  religion  for  himself  ? 

When,  in  youth,  we  drink  our  wine  with  a  merry 
heart,  as  the  Scripture  expresses  it,  we  think  we  are  suf- 
ficient for  ourselves;  strong,  happy,  and  beloved,  we 
believe,  like  Ajax,  we  shall  be  able  to  escape  every 
storm  in  spite  of  the  gods.  But  later  in  life,  when  the 
back  is  bowed,  when  happiness  proves  a  fading  flower, 
and  the  affections  grow  chiU — then,  in  fear  of  the  void 

[72] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

and  the  darkness,  we  stretch  out  our  arms,  like  the 
child  overtaken  by  night,  and  we  call  for  help  to  Him 
who  is  everywhere. 

I  was  asking  this  morning  why  this  growing  confu- 
sion alike  for  society  and  for  the  individual?  In  vain 
does  human  reason  from  hour  to  hour  light  some  new 
torch  on  the  roadside :  the  night  continues  to  grow  ever 
darker!  Is  it  not  because  we  are  content  to  withdraw 
farther  and  farther  from  God,  the  Sun  of  spirits? 

But  what  do  these  hermit's  reveries  signify  to  the 
world?  The  inward  turmoils  of  most  men  are  sti- 
fled by  the  outward  ones;  life  does  not  give  them 
time  to  question  themselves.  Have  they  time  to  know 
what  they  are,  and  what  they  should  be,  whose  whole 
thoughts  are  in  the  next  lease  or  the  last  price  of  stock  ? 
Heaven  is  very  high,  and  wise  men  look  only  at  the 
earth. 

But  I — poor  savage  amid  all  this  civilization,  who 
seek  neither  power  nor  riches,  and  who  have  found  in 
my  own  thoughts  the  home  and  shelter  of  my  spirit — 
I  can  go  back  with  impunity  to  these  recollections  of 
my  childhood;  and,  if  this  our  great  city  no  longer 
honors  the  name  of  God  with  a  festival,  I  will  strive  still 
to  keep  the  feast  to  Him  in  my  heart. 


[73] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  PRICE   OF  POWER  AND   THE   WORTH   OF   FAME 

Sunday,  July  ist 

Yesterday  the  month  dedicated  to 
Juno  {Junius,  June)  by  the  Romans 
ended.    To-day  we  enter  on  July. 

In  ancient  Rome  this  latter  month 
was  called  Quintilis  (the  fifth),  because 
the  year,  which  was  then  divided  into 
only  ten  parts,  began  in  March.  When 
Numa  Pompilius  divided  it  into  twelve 
months  this  name  of  Quintilis  was  preserved,  as  well 
as  those  that  followed — Sextilis,  September,  October, 
November,  December — although  these  designations  did 
not  accord  with  the  newly  arranged  order  of  the  months. 
At  last,  after  a  time  the  month  Quintilis,  in  which  Julius 
Caesar  was  bom,  was  called  Julius,  whence  we  have 
July.  Thus  this  name,  placed  in  the  calendar,  is 
become  the  imperishable  record  of  a  great  man;  it  is 
an  immortal  epitaph  on  Time's  highway,  engraved  by 
the  admiration  of  man. 

How  many  similar  inscriptions  are  there!  Seas, 
continents,  mountains,  stars,  and  monuments,  have 
all  in  succession  served  the  same  purpose!  We  have 
turned  the  whole  world  into  a  Golden  Book,  like  that 
in  which  the  state  of  Venice  used  to  enroll  its  illustrious 

[74] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

names  and  its  great  deeds.  It  seems  that  mankind 
feels  a  necessity  for  honoring  itself  in  its  elect  ones, 
and  that  it  raises  itself  in  its  own  eyes  by  choosing 
heroes  from  among  its  own  race.  The  human  family 
love  to  preserve  the  memory,  of  the  parvenus  of  glory, 
as  we  cherish  that  of  a  great  ancestor,  or  of  a  bene- 
factor. 

In  fact,  the  talents  granted  to  a  single  individual  do 
not  benefit  himself  alone,  but  are  gifts  to  the  world; 
everyone  shares  them,  for  everyone  suffers  or  benefits 
by  his  actions.  Genius  is  a  lighthouse,  meant  to  give 
light  from  afar;  the  man  who  bears  it  is  but  the  rock 
upon  which  this  lighthouse  is  built. 

I  love  to  dwell  upon  these  thoughts;  they  explain  to 
me  in  what  consists  our  admiration  for  glory.  When 
glory  has  benefited  men,  that  admiration  is  gratitude; 
when  it  is  only  remarkable  in  itself,  it  is  the  pride  of 
race;  as  men,  we  love  to  immortalize  the  most  shining 
examples  of  humanity. 

Who  knows  whether  we  do  not  obey  the  same  in- 
stinct in  submitting  to  the  hand  of  power  ?  Apart  from 
the  requirements  of  a  gradation  of  ranks,  or  the  conse- 
quences of  a  conquest,  the  multitude  delight  to  sur- 
round their  chiefs  with  privileges — whether  it  be  that 
their  vanity  makes  them  thus  to  aggrandize  one  of 
their  own  creations,  or  whether  they  try  to  conceal  the 
humiliation  of  subjection  by  exaggerating  the  impor- 
tance of  those  who  rule  them.  They  wish  to  honor 
themselves  through  their  master;  they  elevate  him  on 
their  shoulders  as  on  a  pedestal;  they  surround  him 
with  a  halo  of  light,  in  order  that  some  of  it  may  be 

[75] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

reflected  upon  themselves.  It  is  still  the  fable  of  the 
dog  who  contents  himself  with  the  chain  and  collar,  so 
that  they  are  of  gold. 

This  servile  vanity  is  not  less  natural  or  less  common 
than  the  vanity  of  dominion.  Whoever  feels  himself 
incapable  of  command,  at  least  desires  to  obey  a  pow- 
erful chief.  Serfs  have  been  known  to  consider  them- 
selves dishonored  when  they  became  the  property  of  a 
mere  count  after  having  been  that  of  a  prince,  and 
Saint-Simon  mentions  a  valet  who  would  only  wait 
upon  marquises. 

July  'jth,  seven  o^clock  P.  m. — I  have  just  now  been 
up  the  Boulevards;  it  was  the  opera  night,  and  there 
was  a  crowd  of  carriages  in  the  Rue  Lepelletier.  The 
foot-passengers  who  were  stopped  at  a  crossing  rec- 
ognized the  persons  in  some  of  these  as  we  went 
by,  and  mentioned  their  names;  they  were  those  of 
celebrated  or  powerful  men,  the  successful  ones  of  the 
day. 

Near  me  there  was  a  man  looking  on  with  hollow 
cheeks  and  eager  eyes,  whose  thin  black  coat  was 
threadbare.  He  followed  with  envious  looks  these  pos- 
sessors of  the  privileges  of  power  or  of  fame,  and  I  read 
on  his  lips,  which  curled  with  S,  bitter  smile,  all  that 
passed  in  his  mind. 

"Look  at  them,  the  lucky  fellows!"  thought  he;  "all 
the  pleasures  of  wealth,  all  the  enjoyments  of  pride,  are 
theirs.  Their  names  are  renowned,  all  their  wishes  ful- 
filled; they  are  the  sovereigns  of  the  world,  either  by 
their  intellect  or  their  power;  and  while  I,  poor  and  un- 
known, toil  painfully  along  the  road  below,  they  wing 

[76] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

their  way  over  the  mountain-tops  gilded  by  the  broad 
sunshine  of  prosperity." 

I  have  come  home  in  deep  thought.  Is  it  true  that 
there  are  these  incquahties,  I  do  not  say  in  the  fortunes, 
but  in  the  happiness  of  men  ?  Do  genius  and  authority 
really  wear  life  as  a  crown,  while  the  greater  part  of 
mankind  receive  it  as  a  yoke  ?  Is  the  difference  of  rank 
but  a  different  use  of  men's  dispositions  and  talents,  or 
a  real  inequality  in  their  destinies?  A  solemn  question, 
as  it  regards  the  verification  of  God's  impartiality. 

July  Sth,  noon. — I  went  this  morning  to  call  upon  a 
friend  from  the  same  province  as  myself,  who  is  the 
first  usher-in-waiting  to  one  of  our  ministers.  I  took 
him  some  letters  from  his  family,  left  for  him  by  a  trav- 
eller just  come  from  Brittany.    He  wished  me  to  stay. 

''To-day,"  said  he,  "the  Minister  gives  no  audience: 
he  takes  a  day  of  rest  with  his  family.  His  younger  sis- 
ters are  arrived ;  he  will  take  them  this  morning  to  St. 
Cloud,  and  in  the  evening  he  has  invited  his  friends  to 
a  private  ball.  I  shall  be  dismissed  directly  for  the  rest 
of  the  day.  We  can  dine  together;  read  the  news  while 
you  are  waiting  for  me." 

I  sat  down  at  a  table  covered  with  newspapers,  all  of 
which  I  looked  over  by  turns.  Most  of  them  contained 
severe  criticisms  on  the  last  political  acts  of  the  minis- 
ter; some  of  them  added  suspicions  as  to  the  honor  of 
the  minister  himself. 

Just  as  I  had  finished  reading,  a  secretary  came  for 
them  to  take  them  to  his  master. 

He  was  then  about  to  read  these  accusations,  to  suf- 
fer silently  the  abuse  of  all  those  tongues  which  were 

[77] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

holding  him  up  to  indignation  or  to  scorn!  Like  the 
Roman  victor  in  his  triumph,  he  had  to  endure  the  in- 
sults of  him  who  followed  his  car,  relating  to  the  crowd 
his  follies,  his  ignorance,  or  his  vices. 

But,  among  the  arrows  shot  at  him  from  ever}'  side, 
would  no  one  be  found  poisoned?  Would  not  one 
reach  some  spot  in  his  heart  where  the  wound  would 
be  incurable?  What  is  the  worth  of  a  life  exposed  to 
the  attacks  of  envious  hatred  or  furious  conviction? 
The  Christians  yielded  only  the  fragments  of  their  flesh 
to  the  beasts  of  the  amphitheatres;  the  man  in  power 
gives  up  his  peace,  his  affections,  his  honor,  to  the  cruel 
bites  of  the  pen. 

While  I  was  musing  upon  these  dangers  of  greatness, 
the  usher  entered  hastily.  Important  news  had  been 
received:  the  minister  is  just  summoned  to  the  coun- 
cil; he  will  not  be  able  to  take  his  sisters  to  St. 
Cloud. 

I  saw,  through  the  windows,  the  young  ladies,  who 
were  waiting  at  the  door,  sorrowfully  go  upstairs  again, 
while  their  brother  went  off  to  the  council.  The  car- 
riage, which  should  have  gone  filled  with  so  much  fam- 
ily happiness,  is  just  out  of  sight,  carrying  only  the  cares 
of  a  statesman  in  it. 

The  usher  came  back  discontented  and  disappointed. 
The  more  or  less  of  liberty  which  he  is  allowed  to  enjoy 
is  his  barometer  of  the  political  atmosphere.  If  he  gets 
leave,  all  goes  well ;  if  he  is  kept  at  his  post,  the  country 
is  in  danger.  His  opinion  on  public  affairs  is  but  a  cal- 
culation of  his  own  interest.  IMy  friend  is  almost  a 
statesman. 

[78] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

I  had  some  conversation  with  him,  and  he  told  me 
several  curious  particulars  of  public  life. 

The  new  minister  has  old  friends  whose  opinions  he 
opposes,  though  he  still  retains  his  personal  regard  for 
them.  Though  separated  from  them  by  the  colors  he 
fights  under,  they  remain  united  by  old  associations; 
but  the  exigencies  of  party  forbid  him  to  meet  them. 
If  their  intercourse  continued,  it  would  awaken  suspi- 
cion; people  would  imagine  that  some  dishonorable 
bargain  was  going  on;  his  friends  would  be  held  to  be 
traitors  desirous  to  sell  themselves,  and  he  the  corrupt 
minister  prepared  to  buy  them.  He  has,  therefore, 
been  obliged  to  break  off  friendships  of  twenty  years' 
standing,  and  to  sacrifice  attachments  which  had  be- 
come a  second  nature. 

Sometimes,  however,  the  minister  still  gives  way  to 
his  old  feehngs;  he  receives  or  visits  his  friends  privately; 
he  shuts  himself  up  with  them,  and  talks  of  the  times 
when  they  could  be  open  friends.  By  dint  of  precau- 
tions they  have  hitherto  succeeded  in  concealing  this 
blot  of  friendship  against  policy;  but  sooner  or  later 
the  newspapers  will  be  informed  of  it,  and  will  denounce 
him  to  the  country  as  an  object  of  distrust. 

For  whether  hatred  be  honest  or  dishonest,  it  never 
shrinks  from  any  accusation.  Sometimes  it  even  pro- 
ceeds to  crime.  The  usher  assured  me  that  several 
warnings  had  been  given  the  minister  which  had  made 
him  fear  the  vengeance  of  an  assassin,  and  that  he  no 
longer  ventured  out  on  foot. 

Then,  from  one  thing  to  another,  I  learned  what 
temptations  came  in  to  mislead  or  overcome  his  judg- 

[79] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

ment;  how  he  found  himself  fatally  led  into  obliquities 
which  he  could  not  but  deplore.  Misled  by  passion, 
overpersuaded  by  entreaties,  or  compelled  for  reputa- 
tion's sake,  he  has  many  times  held  the  balance  with  an 
unsteady  hand.  How  sad  the  condition  of  him  who  is 
in  authority!  Not  only  are  the  miseries  of  power  im- 
posed upon  him,  but  its  vices  also,  which,  not  content 
with  torturing,  succeed  in  corrupting  him. 

We  prolonged  our  conversation  till  it  was  interrupted 
by  the  minister's  return.  He  threw  himself  out  of  the 
carriage  with  a  handful  of  papers,  and  with  an  anxious 
manner  went  into  his  own  room.  An  instant  afterward 
his  bell  was  heard ;  his  secretary  was  called  to  send  off 
notices  to  all  those  invited  for  the  evening;  the  ball 
would  not  take  place;  they  spoke  mysteriously  of  bad 
news  transmitted  by  the  telegraph,  and  in  such  cir- 
cumstances an  entertainment  would  seem  to  insult  the 
public  sorrow. 

I  took  leave  of  my  friend,  and  here  I  am  at  home. 
What  I  have  just  seen  is  an  answer  to  my  doubts  the 
other  day.  Now  I  know  with  what  pangs  men  pay  for 
their  dignities ;  now  I  understand 

That  Fortune  sells  what  we  beUeve  she  gives. 

This  explains  to  me  the  reason  why  Charles  V  aspired 
to  the  repose  of  the  cloister. 

And  yet  I  have  only  glanced  at  some  of  the  sufferings 
attached  to  power.  What  shall  I  say  of  the  falls  in  which 
its  possessors  are  precipitated  from  the  heights  of 
heaven  to  the  very  depths  of  the  earth  ?  of  that  path 
of  pain  along  which  they  must  forever  bear  the  burden 
of  their  responsibility  ?   of  that  chain  of  decorums  and 

[80] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

ennuis  which  encompasses  every  act  of  their  lives,  and 
leaves  them  so  little  liberty  ? 

The  partisans  of  despotism  adhere  with  reason  to 
forms  and  ceremonies.  If  men  wish  to  give  unlimited 
power  to  their  fellow-man,  they  must  keep  him  sepa- 
rated from  ordinary  humanity;  they  must  surround 
him  with  a  continual  worship,  and,  by  a  constant  cere- 
monial, keep  up  for  him  the  superhuman  part  they 
have  granted  him.  Our  masters  cannot  remain  abso- 
lute, except  on  condition  of  being  treated  as  idols. 

But,  after  all,  these  idols  are  men,  and,  if  the  exclu- 
sive life  they  must  lead  is  an  insult  to  the  dignity  of 
others,  it  is  also  a  torment  to  themselves.  Everyone 
knows  the  law  of  the  Spanish  court,  which  used  to  regu- 
late, hour  by  hour,  the  actions  of  the  king  and  queen; 
"so  that,"  says  Voltaire,  ''by  reading  it  one  can  tell  all 
that  the  sovereigns  of  Spain  have  done,  or  will  do,  from 
Philip  II  to  the  day  of  judgment."  It  was  by  this  law 
that  Philip  III,  when  sick,  was  obliged  to  endure  such 
an  excess  of  heat  that  he  died  in  consequence,  because 
the  Duke  of  Uzeda,  who  alone  had  the  right  to  put  out 
the  fire  in  the  royal  chamber,  happened  to  be  absent. 

When  the  wife  of  Charles  II  was  run  away  with  on 
a  spirited  horse,  she  was  about  to  perish  before  anyone 
dared  to  save  her,  because  etiquette  forbade  them  to 
touch  the  queen.  Two  young  officers  endangered  their 
lives  for  her  by  stopping  the  horse.  The  prayers  and 
tears  of  her  whom  they  had  just  snatched  from  death 
were  necessary  to  obtain  pardon  for  their  crime.  Every 
one  knows  the  anecdote  related  by  Madame  Campan 
of  Marie  Antoinette,  wife  of  Louis  XVI.  One  day,  be- 
6  [8i] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

ing  at  her  toilet,  when  the  chemise  was  about  to  be  pre- 
sented to  her  by  one  of  the  assistants,  a  lady  of  very 
ancient  family  entered  and  claimed  the  honor,  as  she 
had  the  right  by  etiquette;  but,  at  the  moment  she  was 
about  to  fulfil  her  duty,  a  lady  of  higher  rank  appeared, 
and  in  her  turn  took  the  garment  she  was  about  to  offer 
to  the  queen;  when  a  third  lady  of  still  higher  title 
came  in  her  turn,  and  was  followed  by  a  fourth,  who 
was  no  other  than  the  king's  sister.  The  chemise  was  in 
this  manner  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  with  ceremo- 
nies, courtesies,  and  compliments,  before  it  came  to  the 
queen,  who,  half  naked  and  quite  ashamed,  was  shiv- 
ering with  cold  for  the  great  honor  of  etiquette. 

12th,  seven  0^ clock,  p.  m. — On  coming  home  this  even- 
ing, I  saw,  standing  at  the  door  of  a  house,  an  old  man, 
whose  appearance  and  features  reminded  me  of  my 
father.  There  was  the  same  beautiful  smile,  the  same 
deep  and  penetrating  eye,  the  same  noble  bearing  of 
the  head,  and  the  same  careless  attitude. 

I  began  living  over  again  the  first  years  of  my  life, 
and  recalling  to  myself  the  conversations  of  that  guide 
whom  God  in  his  mercy  had  given  me,  and  whom  in 
his  severity  he  had  too  soon  withdrawn. 

When  my  father  spoke,  it  was  not  only  to  bring  our 
two  minds  together  by  an  interchange  of  thought,  but 
his  words  always  contained  instruction. 

Not  that  he  endeavored  to  make  me  feel  it  so:  my 
father  feared  everything  that  had  the  appearance  of  a 
lesson.  He  used  to  say  that  virtue  could  make  herself 
devoted  friends,  but  she  did  not  take  pupils:  therefore 
he  was  not  desirous  to  teach  goodness;   he  contented 

[82] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

himself  with  sowing  the  seeds  of  it,  certain  that  experi- 
ence would  make  them  grow. 

How  often  has  good  grain  fallen  thus  into  a  corner 
of  the  heart,  and,  when  it  has  been  long  forgotten,  all 
at  once  put  forth  the  blade  and  come  into  ear!  It  is  a 
treasure  laid  aside  in  a  time  of  ignorance,  and  we  do  not 
know  its  value  till  we  find  ourselves  in  need  of  it. 

Among  the  stories  with  which  he  enlivened  our 
walks  or  our  evenings,  there  is  one  which  now  returns 
to  my  memory,  doubtless  because  the  time  is  come  to 
derive  its  lesson  from  it. 

My  father,  who  was  apprenticed  at  the  age  of  twelve 
to  one  of  those  trading  collectors  who  call  themselves 
naturalists,  because  they  put  all  creation  under  glasses 
that  they  may  sell  it  by  retail,  had  always  led  a  life  of 
poverty  and  labor.  Obliged  to  rise  before  daybreak,  by 
turns  shopboy,  clerk,  and  laborer,  he  was  made  to 
bear  alone  all  the  work  of  a  trade  of  which  his  master 
reaped  all  the  profits.  In  truth,  this  latter  had  a  pecul- 
iar talent  for  making  the  most  of  the  labor  of  other 
people.  Though  unfit  himself  for  the  execution  of  any 
kind  of  work,  no  one  knew  better  how  to  sell  it.  His 
words  were  a  net,  in  which  people  found  themselves 
taken  before  they  were  aware.  And  since  he  was  de- 
voted to  himself  alone,  and  looked  on  the  producer  as 
his  enemy,  and  the  buyer  as  prey,  he  used  them  both 
with  that  obstinate  perseverance  which  avarice  teaches. 
My  father  was  a  slave  all  the  week,  and  could  call 
himself  his  own  only  on  Sunday.  The  master  natural- 
ist, who  used  to  spend  the  day  at  the  house  of  an  old 
female  relative,  then  gave  him  his  liberty  on  condition 

[83] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

that  he  dined  out,  and  at  his  own  expense.  But  my 
father  used  secretly  to  take  with  him  a  crust  of  bread, 
which  he  hid  in  his  botanizing-box,  and,  leaving  Paris  as 
soon  as  it  was  day,  he  would  wander  far  into  the  valley 
of  Montmorency,  the  wood  of  Meudon,  or  among  the 
windings  of  the  Marne.  Excited  by  the  fresh  air,  the 
penetrating  perfume  of  the  growing  vegetation,  or  the 
fragrance  of  the  honeysuckles,  he  would  walk  on  until 
hunger  or  fatigue  made  itself  felt.  Then  he  would  sit 
under  a  hedge,  or  by  the  side  of  a  stream,  and  would 
make  a  rustic  feast,  by  turns  on  watercresses,  wood 
strawberries,  and  blackberries  picked  from  the  hedges; 
he  would  gather  a  few  plants,  read  a  few  pages  of  Flor- 
ian,  then  in  greatest  vogue,  of  Gessner,  who  was  just 
translated,  or  of  Jean  Jacques,  of  whom  he  possessed 
three  old  volumes.  The  day  was  thus  passed  alter- 
nately in  activity  and  rest,  in  pursuit  and  meditation, 
until  the  declining  sun  warned  him  to  take  again  the 
road  to  Paris,  where  he  would  arrive,  his  feet  torn  and 
dusty,  but  his  mind  invigorated  for  a  whole  week. 

One  day,  as  he  was  going  toward  the  wood  of  Viro- 
flay,  he  met,  close  to  it,  a  stranger  who  was  occupied  in 
botanizing  and  in  sorting  the  plants  he  had  just  gath- 
ered. He  was  an  elderly  man  with  an  honest  face;  but 
his  eyes,  which  were  rather  deep-set  under  his  eyebrows, 
had  a  somewhat  uneasy  and  timid  expression.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  brown  cloth  coat,  a  gray  waistcoat,  black 
breeches,  and  worsted  stockings,  and  held  an  ivory- 
headed  cane  under  his  arm.  His  appearance  was  that 
of  a  small  retired  tradesman  who  was  living  on  his 
means,  and  rather  below  the  golden  mean  of  Horace. 

[84] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

My  father,  who  had  great  respect  for  age,  civilly 
raised  his  hat  to  him  as  he  passed.  In  doing  so,  a 
plant  he  held  fell  from  his  hand ;  the  stranger  stooped 
to  take  it  up,  and  recognized  it. 

"It  is  a  Deutaria  heptaphyllos,^^  said  he;  "I  have 
not  yet  seen  any  of  them  in  these  woods;  did  you  find 
it  near  here,  sir?" 

My  father  replied  that  it  was  to  be  found  in  abun- 
dance on  the  top  of  the  hill,  toward  Sevres,  as  well  as  the 
great  Laser pitium. 

"That,  too!"  repeated  the  old  man  more  briskly. 
"Ah!  I  shall  go  and  look  for  them;  I  have  gathered 
them  formerly  on  the  hillside  of  Robaila." 

My  father  proposed  to  take  him.  The  stranger  ac- 
cepted his  proposal  with  thanks,  and  hastened  to  col- 
lect together  the  plants  he  had  gathered;  but  all  of  a 
sudden  he  appeared  seized  with  a  scruple.  He  observed 
to  his  companion  that  the  road  he  was  going  was  half- 
way up  the  hill,  and  led  in  the  direction  of  the  castle  of 
the  Dames  Royales  at  Bellevue;  that  by  going  to  the 
top  he  would  consequently  turn  out  of  his  road,  and 
that  it  was  not  right  he  should  take  this  trouble  for  a 
stranger. 

My  father  insisted  upon  it  with  his  habitual  good- 
nature; but,  the  more  eagerness  he  showed,  the  more 
obstinately  the  old  man  refused;  it  even  seemed  to  my 
father  that  his  good  intention  at  last  excited  his  suspi- 
cion. He  therefore  contented  himself  with  pointing  out 
the  road  to  the  stranger,  whom  he  saluted,  and  he  soon 
lost  sight  of  him. 

Many  hours  passed  by,  and  he  thought  no  more  of 

[85] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

the  meeting.  He  had  reached  the  copses  of  Chaville, 
where,  stretched  on  the  ground  in  a  mossy  glade,  he 
read  once  more  the  last  volume  of  Emile.  The  de- 
light of  reading  it  had  so  completely  absorbed  him  that 
he  had  ceased  to  see  or  hear  anything  around  him. 
With  his  cheeks  flushed  and  his  eyes  moist,  he  repeated 
aloud  a  passage  which  had  particularly  affected  him. 

An  exclamation  uttered  close  by  him  awoke  him 
from  his  ecstasy;  he  raised  his  head,  and  perceived  the 
tradesman-looking  person  he  had  met  before  on  the 
crossroad  at  Viroflay. 

He  was  loaded  with  plants,  the  collection  of  which 
seemed  to  have  put  him  into  high  good-humor. 

"A  thousand  thanks,  sir,"  said  he  to  my  father.  ''I 
have  found  all  that  you  told  me  of,  and  I  am  indebted 
to  you  for  a  charming  walk." 

My  father  respectfully  rose,  and  made  a  civil  reply. 
The  stranger  had  grown  quite  familiar,  and  even  asked 
if  his  young  "brother  botanist"  did  not  think  of  return- 
ing to  Paris.  My  father  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and 
opened  his  tin  box  to  put  his  book  back  in  it. 

The  stranger  asked  him  with  a  smile  if  he  might 
without  impertinence  ask  the  name  of  it.  My  father 
answered  that  it  was  Rousseau's  Emile. 

The  stranger  immediately  became  grave. 

They  walked  for  some  time  side  by  side,  my  father 
expressing,  with  the  warmth  of  a  heart  still  throbbing 
with  emotion,  all  that  this  work  had  made  him  feel; 
his  companion  remaining  cold  and  silent.  The  former 
extolled  the  glory  of  the  great  Genevese  writer,  whose 
genius  had  made  him  a  citizen  of  the  world;  he  expa- 

[86] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

tiated  on  this  privilege  of  great  thinkers,  who  reign  in 
spite  of  time  and  space,  and  gather  together  a  people  of 
willing  subjects  out  of  all  nations;  but  the  stranger  sud- 
denly interrupted  him : 

"And  how  do  you  know,"  said  he,  mildly,  "whether 
Jean  Jacques  would  not  exchange  the  reputation  which 
you  seem  to  envy  for  the  life  of  one  of  the  woodcut- 
ters whose  chimneys'  smoke  we  see  ?  What  has  fame 
brought  him  except  persecution  ?  The  unknown  friends 
whom  his  books  may  have  made  for  him  content  them- 
selves with  blessing  him  in  their  hearts,  while  the  de- 
clared enemies  that  they  have  drawn  upon  him  pursue 
him  with  violence  and  calumny!  His  pride  has  been 
flattered  by  success:  how  many  times  has  it  been 
wounded  by  satire  ?  And  be  assured  that  human  pride 
is  like  the  Sybarite  who  was  prevented  from  sleeping 
by  a  crease  in  a  roseleaf.  The  activity  of  a  vigorous 
mind,  by  which  the  world  profits,  almost  always  turns 
against  him  who  possesses  it.  He  expects  more  from  it 
as  he  grows  older;  the  ideal  he  pursues  continually  dis- 
gusts him  with  the  actual;  he  is  like  a  man  who,  with 
a  too-refined  sight,  discerns  spots  and  blemishes  in  the 
most  beautiful  face.  I  will  not  speak  of  stronger  temp- 
tations and  of  deeper  downfalls.  Genius,  you  have 
said,  is  a  kingdom;  but  what  virtuous  man  is  not  afraid 
of  being  a  king?  He  who  feels  only  his  great  powers, 
is — with  the  weaknesses  and  passions  of  our  nature — 
preparing  for  great  failures.  Believe  me,  sir,  the  un- 
happy man  who  wrote  this  book  is  no  object  of  admi- 
ration or  of  envy;  but,  if  you  have  a  feeling  heart,  pity 
him!" 

[87] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

My  father,  astonished  at  the  excitement  with  which 
his  companion  pronounced  these  last  words,  did  not 
know  what  to  answer. 

Just  then  they  reached  the  paved  road  which  led 
from  Meudon  Castle  to  that  of  Versailles;  a  carriage 
was  passing. 

The  ladies  who  were  in  it  perceived  the  old  man,  ut- 
tered an  exclamation  of  surprise,  and  leaning  out  of 
the  window  repeated : 

"There  is  Jean  Jacques — there  is  Rousseau!" 

Then  the  carriage  disappeared  in  the  distance. 

My  father  remained  motionless,  confounded,  and 
amazed,  his  eyes  wide  open,  and  his  hands  clasped. 

Rousseau,  who  had  shuddered  on  hearing  his  name 
spoken,  turned  toward  him: 

"You  see,"  said  he,  with  the  bitter  misanthropy 
which  his  later  misfortunes  had  produced  in  him, 
"Jean  Jacques  cannot  even  hide  himself:  he  is  an  ob- 
ject of  curiosity  to  some,  of  malignity  to  others,  and  to 
all  he  is  a  public  thing,  at  which  they  point  the  finger. 
It  would  signify  less  if  he  had  only  to  submit  to  the  im- 
pertinence of  the  idle;  but,  as  soon  as  a  man  has  had 
the  misfortune  to  make  himself  a  name,  he  becomes 
public  property.  Every  one  rakes  into  his  life,  relates 
his  most  trivial  actions,  and  insults  his  feelings;  he 
becomes  like  those  walls,  which  every  passer-by  may 
deface  with  some  abusive  writing.  Perhaps  you  will 
say  that  I  have  myself  encouraged  this  curiosity  by 
publishing  my  Confessions.  But  the  world  forced  me  to 
it.  They  looked  into  my  house  through  the  blinds,  and 
they  slandered  me;  I  have  opened  the  doors  and  win- 

[88] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

dows,  so  that  they  should  at  least  know  me  such  as  I 
am.  Adieu,  sir.  Whenever  you  wish  to  know  the 
worth  of  fame,  remember  that  you  have  seen  Rous- 
seau." 

Nine  o^ clock. — Ah!  now  I  understand  my  father's 
story !  It  contains  the  answer  to  one  of  the  questions  I 
asked  myself  a  week  ago.  Yes,  I  now  feel  that  fame 
and  power  are  gifts  that  are  dearly  bought;  and  that, 
when  they  dazzle  the  soul,  both  are  oftenest,  as  Madame 
de  Stael  says,  but  un  deuil  eclatant  de  bonheur!  * 

*  'Tis  better  to  be  lowly  bom, 
And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content, 
Than  to  be  perk'd  up  in  a  glisteriqg  grief, 
And  wear  a  golden  sorrow. 

//enry  VIII,,  Act  II.,  Scene  3.] 


[89] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MISANTHROPY  AND  REPENTANCE 

August  2,d,  Nine  O^clock  P.M. 

[ERE  are  days  when  everything  ap- 
pears gloomy  to  us;  the  world,  like  the 
sky,  is  covered  by  a  dark  fog.  Nothing 
seems  in  its  place ;  we  see  only  misery, 
improvidence,  and  cruelty;  the  world 
seems  without  God,  and  given  up  to 
all  the  evils  of  chance. 

Yesterday  I  was  in  this  unhappy 
humor.  After  a  long  walk  in  the  faubourgs,  I  returned 
home,  sad  and  dispirited. 

Everything  I  had  seen  seemed  to  accuse  the  civiliza- 
tion of  which  we  are  so  proud !  I  had  wandered  into  a 
little  by-street,  with  which  I  was  not  acquainted,  and  I 
found  myself  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  those  dreadful 
abodes  where  the  poor  are  bom,  to  languish  and  die.  I 
looked  at  those  decaying  walls,  which  time  has  covered 
with  a  foul  leprosy;  those  windows,  from  which  dirty 
rags  hang  out  to  dry;  those  fetid  gutters,  which  coil 
along  the  fronts  of  the  houses  like  venomous  reptiles! 
I  felt  oppressed  with  grief,  and  hastened  on. 

A  little  farther  on  I  was  stopped  by  the  hearse  of  a 
hospital;  a  dead  man,  nailed  down  in  his  deal  cofhn, 
was  going  to  his  last  abode,  without  funeral  pomp  or 

[90] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

ceremony,  and  without  followers.  There  was  not  here 
even  that  last  friend  of  the  outcast — the  dog,  which  a 
painter  has  introduced  as  the  sole  attendant  at  the  pau- 
per's burial !  He  whom  they  were  preparing  to  commit 
to  the  earth  was  going  to  the  tomb,  as  he  had  lived, 
alone;  doubtless  no  one  would  be  aware  of  his  end.  In 
this  battle  of  society,  what  signifies  a  soldier  the  less  ? 

But  what,  then,  is  this  human  society,  if  one  of  its 
members  can  thus  disappear  like  a  leaf  carried  away 
by  the  wind  ? 

The  hospital  was  near  a  barrack,  at  the  entrance  of 
which  old  men,  women,  and  children  were  quarrelling 
for  the  remains  of  the  coarse  bread  which  the  soldiers 
had  given  them  in  charity !  Thus,  beings  like  ourselves 
daily  wait  in  destitution  on  our  compassion  till  we  give 
them  leave  to  live!  Whole  troops  of  outcasts,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  trials  imposed  on  all  God's  children,  have  to 
endure  the  pangs  of  cold,  hunger,  and  humiliation. 
Unhappy  human  commonwealth!  Where  man  is  in  a 
worse  condition  than  the  bee  in  its  hive,  or  the  ant  in  its 
subterranean  city ! 

Ah!  what  then  avails  our  reason?  What  is  the  use 
of  so  many  high  faculties,  if  we  are  neither  the  wiser 
nor  the  happier  for  them  ?  Which  of  us  would  not  ex- 
change his  life  of  labor  and  trouble  with  that  of  the  birds 
of  the  air,  to  whom  the  whole  world  is  a  life  of  joy  ? 

How  well  I  understand  the  complaint  of  Mao,  in  the 
popular  tales  of  the  Foyer  Breton  who,  when  dying  of 
hunger  and  thirst,  says,  as  he  looks  at  the  bullfinches 
rifling  the  fruit-trees : 

"Alas!  those  birds  are  happier  than  Christians;  they 

[91] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

have  no  need  of  inns,  or  butchers,  or  bakers,  or  garden- 
ers. God's  heaven  belongs  to  them,  and  earth  spreads 
a  continual  feast  before  them !  The  tiny  flies  are  their 
game,  ripe  grass  their  cornfields,  and  hips  and  haws 
their  store  of  fruit.  They  have  the  right  of  taking 
everywhere,  without  paying  or  asking  leave:  thus  comes 
it  that  the  little  birds  are  happy,  and  sing  all  the  live- 
long day!" 

But  the  life  of  man  in  a  natural  state  is  like  that 
of  the  birds;  he  equally  enjoys  nature.  "The  earth 
spreads  a  continual  feast  before  him."  What,  then, 
has  he  gained  by  that  selfish  and  imperfect  association 
which  forms  a  nation  ?  Would  it  not  be  better  for  every 
one  to  turn  again  to  the  fertile  bosom  of  nature,  and  live 
there  upon  her  bounty  in  peace  and  liberty  ? 

August  loth,  jour  o^ clock  a.m. — The  dawn  casts  a  red 
glow  on  my  bedcurtains;  the  breeze  brings  in  the  fra- 
grance of  the  gardens  below.  Here  I  am  again  leaning 
on  my  elbows  by  the  windows,  inhaling  the  freshness  and 
gladness  of  this  first  wakening  of  the  day. 

My  eye  always  passes  over  the  roofs  filled  with  flow- 
ers, warbling,  and  sunlight,  with  the  same  pleasure;  but 
to-day  it  stops  at  the  end  of  a  buttress  which  separates 
our  house  from  the  next.  The  storms  have  stripped 
the  top  of  its  plaster  covering,  and  dust  carried  by  the 
wind  has  collected  in  the  crevices,  and,  being  fixed  there 
by  the  rain,  has  formed  a  sort  of  aerial  terrace,  where 
some  green  grass  has  sprung  up.  Among  it  rises  a 
stalk  of  wheat,  which  to-day  is  surmounted  by  a  sickly 
ear  that  droops  its  yellow  head. 

This  poor  stray  crop  on  the  roofs,  the  harvest  of  which 

[92] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

will  fall  to  the  neighboring  sparrows,  has  carried  my 
thoughts  to  the  rich  crops  which  are  now  falling  be- 
neath the  sickle ;  it  has  recalled  to  me  the  beautiful  walks 
I  took  as  a  child  through  my  native  province,  when  the 
threshing-floors  at  the  farmhouses  resounded  from 
every  part  with  the  sound  of  a  flail,  and  when  the  carts, 
loaded  with  golden  sheaves,  came  in  by  all  the  roads. 
I  still  remember  the  songs  of  the  maidens,  the  cheer- 
fulness of  the  old  men,  the  open-hearted  merriment  of 
the  laborers.  There  was,  at  that  time,  something  in 
their  looks  both  of  pride  and  feeling.  The  latter  came 
from  thankfulness  to  God,  the  former  from  the  sight 
of  the  harvest,  the  reward  of  their  labor.  They  felt  in- 
distinctly the  grandeur  and  the  holiness  of  their  part  in 
the  general  work  of  the  world;  they  looked  with  pride 
upon  their  mountains  of  corn-sheaves,  and  they  seemed 
to  say.  Next  to  God,  it  is  we  who  feed  the  world ! 

What  a  wonderful  order  there  is  in  all  human  labor! 
While  the  husbandman  furrows  his  land,  and  prepares 
for  every  one  his  daily  bread,  the  town  artizan,  far  away, 
weaves  the  stuff  in  which  he  is  to  be  clothed ;  the  miner 
seeks  underground  the  iron  for  his  plow;  the  soldier 
defends  him  against  the  invader;  the  judge  takes  care 
that  the  law  protects  his  fields;  the  tax-comptroller  ad- 
justs his  private  interests  with  those  of  the  public ;  the 
merchant  occupies  himself  in  exchanging  his  products 
with  those  of  distant  countries;  the  men  of  science  and 
of  art  add  every  day  a  few  horses  to  this  ideal  team, 
which  draws  along  the  material  world,  as  steam  impels 
the  gigantic  trains  of  our  iron  roads!  Thus  all  unite 
together,  all  help  one  another;  the  toil  of  each  one  benefits 

[93] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

himself  and  all  the  world ;  the  work  has  been  apportioned 
among  the  different  members  of  the  whole  of  society  by  a 
tacit  agreement.  If,  in  this  apportionment,  errors  are 
committed,  if  certain  individuals  have  not  been  employed 
according  to  their  capacities,  those  defects  of  detail 
diminish  in  the  sublime  conception  of  the  whole.  The 
poorest  man  included  in  this  association  has  his  place, 
his  work,  his  reason  for  being  there;  each  is  something 
in  the  whole. 

There  is  nothing  like  this  for  man  in  the  state  of  na- 
ture. As  he  depends  only  upon  himself,  it  is  necessary 
that  he  be  sufficient  for  everything.  All  creation  is  his 
property ;  but  he  finds  in  it  as  many  hindrances  as  helps. 
He  must  surmount  these  obstacles  with  the  single 
strength  that  God  has  given  him;  he  cannot  reckon  on 
any  other  aid  than  chance  and  opportunity.  No  one 
reaps,  manufactures,  fights,  or  thinks  for  him;  he  is 
nothing  to  any  one.  He  is  a  unit  multiplied  by  the 
cipher  of  his  own  single  powers;  while  the  civilized  man 
is  a  unit  multiplied  by  the  whole  of  society. 

But,  notwithstanding  this,  the  other  day,  disgusted 
by  the  sight  of  some  vices  in  detail,  I  cursed  the  latter, 
and  almost  envied  the  life  of  the  savage. 

One  of  the  infirmities  of  our  nature  is  always  to  mis- 
take feeling  for  evidence,  and  to  judge  of  the  season  by 
a  cloud  or  a  ray  of  sunshine. 

Was  the  misery,  the  sight  of  which  made  me  regret  a 
savage  life,  really  the  effect  of  civilization?  Must  we 
accuse  society  of  having  created  these  evils,  or  acknowl- 
edge, on  the  contrary,  that  it  has  alleviated  them? 
Could  the  women  and  children,  who  were  receiving  the 

[94] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

coarse  bread  from  the  soldier,  hope  in  the  desert  for 
more  help  or  pity?  That  dead  man,  whose  forsaken 
state  I  deplored,  had  he  not  found,  by  the  cares  of  a  hos- 
pital, a  cofhn  and  the  humble  grave  where  he  was  about 
to  rest?  Alone,  and  far  from  men,  he  would  have  died 
like  the  wild  beast  in  his  den,  and  would  now  be  serving 
as  food  for  vultures !  These  benefits  of  human  society 
are  shared,  then,  by  the  most  destitute.  Whoever  eats 
the  bread  that  another  has  reaped  and  kneaded,  is 
under  an  obligation  to  his  brother,  and  cannot  say  he 
owes  him  nothing  in  return.  The  poorest  of  us  has  re- 
ceived from  society  much  more  than  his  own  single 
strength  would  have  permitted  him  to  wrest  from  na- 
ture. 

But  cannot  society  give  us  more  ?  Who  doubts  it  ? 
Errors  have  been  committed  in  this  distribution  of  tasks 
and  workers.  Time  will  diminish  the  number  of  them ; 
with  new  lights  a  better  division  will  arise ;  the  elements 
of  society  go  on  toward  perfection,  like  everything  else. 
The  difficulty  is  to  know  how  to  adapt  ourselves  to  the 
slow  step  of  time,  whose  progress  can  never  be  forced 
on  without  danger. 

August  14th,  six  0^ clock  A.M. — My  garret  window 
rises  upon  the  roof  like  a  massive  watch-tower.  The 
comers  are  covered  by  large  sheets  of  lead,  which  run 
into  the  tiles ;  the  successive  action  of  cold  and  heat  has 
made  them  rise,  and  so  a  crevice  has  been  formed  in  an 
angle  on  the  right  side.  There  a  sparrow  has  built  her 
nest. 

I  have  followed  the  progress  of  this  aerial  habitation 
from  the  first  day.     I  have  seen  the  bird  successively 

[95] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

bring  the  straw,  moss,  and  wool  designed  for  the  con- 
struction of  her  abode;  and  I  have  admired  the  perse- 
vering skill  she  expended  in  this  difficult  work.  At  first, 
my  new  neighbor  spent  her  days  in  fluttering  over  the 
poplar  in  the  garden,  and  in  chirping  along  the  gutters; 
a  fine  lady's  life  seemed  the  only  one  to  suit  her.  Then 
all  of  a  sudden,  the  necessity  of  preparing  a  shelter  for 
her  brood  transformed  our  idler  into  a  worker;  she  no 
longer  gave  herself  either  rest  or  relaxation.  I  saw 
her  always  either  flying,  fetching,  or  carrying;  neither 
rain  nor  sun  stopped  her.  A  striking  example  of  the 
power  of  necessity !  We  are  indebted  to  it  not  only  for 
most  of  our  talents,  but  for  many  of  our  virtues ! 

Is  it  not  necessity  that  has  given  the  people  of  less 
favored  climates  that  constant  activity  which  has  placed 
them  so  quickly  at  the  head  of  nations?  As  they  are 
deprived  of  most  of  the  gifts  of  nature,  they  have  sup- 
plied them  by  their  industry;  necessity  has  sharpened 
their  understanding,  endurance  awakened  their  fore- 
sight. While  elsewhere  man,  warmed  by  an  ever  bril- 
liant sun,  and  loaded  with  the  bounties  of  the  earth, 
was  remaining  poor,  ignorant,  and  naked,  in  the  midst 
of  gifts  he  did  not  attempt  to  explore,  here  he  was  forced 
by  necessity  to  wrest  his  food  from  the  ground,  to  build 
habitations  to  defend  himself  from  the  intemperance  of 
the  weather,  and  to  warm  his  body  by  clothing  himself 
with  the  wool  of  animals.  Work  makes  him  both  more 
intelligent  and  more  robust:  disciplined  by  it,  he  seems 
to  mount  higher  on  the  ladder  of  creation,  while  those 
more  favored  by  nature  remain  on  the  step  nearest  to 
the  brutes. 

[96] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

I  made  these  reflections  while  looking  at  the  bird, 
whose  instinct  seemed  to  have  become  more  acute  since 
she  had  been  occupied  in  work.  At  last  the  nest  was 
finished ;  she  set  up  her  household  there,  and  I  followed 
her  through  all  the  phases  of  her  new  existence. 

When  she  had  sat  on  the  eggs,  and  the  young  ones 
were  hatched,  she  fed  them  with  the  most  attentive  care. 
The  corner  of  my  window  had  become  a  stage  of  moral 
action,  which  fathers  and  mothers  might  come  to  take 
lessons  from.  The  little  ones  soon  became  large,  and 
this  morning  I  have  seen  them  take  their  first  flight. 
One  of  them,  weaker  than  the  others,  was  not  able  to 
clear  the  edge  of  the  roof,  and  fell  into  the  gutter.  I 
caught  him  with  some  difficulty,  and  placed  him  again 
on  the  tile  in  front  of  his  house,  but  the  mother  has  not 
noticed  him.  Once  freed  from  the  cares  of  a  family, 
she  has  resumed  her  wandering  life  among  the  trees 
and  along  the  roofs.  In  vain  I  have  kept  away  from  my 
window,  to  take  from  her  every  excuse  for  fear;  in  vain 
the  feeble  little  bird  has  called  to  her  with  plaintive 
cries;  his  bad  mother  has  passed  by,  singing  and  flutter- 
ing with  a  thousand  airs  and  graces.  Once  only  th& 
father  came  near;  he  looked  at  his  offspring  with  con- 
tempt, and  then  disappeared,  never  to  return! 

I  crumbled  some  bread  before  the  little  orphan,  but 
he  did  not  know  how  to  peck  it  with  his  bill.  I  tried 
to  catch  him,  but  he  escaped  into  the  forsaken  nest. 
What  will  become  of  him  there,  if  his  mother  does  not 
come  back ! 

August  i$th,  six  0^ clock. — This  morning,  on  opening 
my  window,  I  found  the  little  bird  dying  upon  the  tiles; 
7  [97] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

his  wounds  showed  me  that  he  had  been  driven  from 
the  nest  by  his  unworthy  mother.  I  tried  in  vain  to 
warm  him  again  with  my  breath;  I  felt  the  last  pulsa- 
tions of  life;  his  eyes  were  already  closed,  and  his  wings 
hung  down !  I  placed  him  on  the  roof  in  a  ray  of  sun- 
shine, and  I  closed  my  window.  The  struggle  of  life 
against  death  has  always  something  gloomy  in  it:  it 
is  a  warning  to  us. 

Happily  I  hear  some  one  in  the  passage;  without 
doubt  it  is  my  old  neighbor;  his  conversation  will  dis- 
tract my  thoughts. 


It  was  my  portress.  Excellent  woman !  She  wished 
me  to  read  a  letter  from  her  son  the  sailor,  and  begged 
me  to  answer  it  for  her. 

I  kept  it,  to  copy  it  in  my  journal.     Here  it  is : 

"Dear  Mother:  This  is  to  tell  you  that  I  have  been 
very  well  ever  since  the  last  time,  except  that  last  week 
I  was  nearly  drowned  with  the  boat,  which  would  have 
been  a  great  loss,  as  there  is  not  a  better  craft  anywhere. 

"A  gust  of  wind  capsized  us;  and  just  as  I  came  up 
above  water,  I  saw  the  captain  sinking.  I  went  after 
him,  as  was  my  duty,  and,  after  diving  three  times,  I 
brought  him  to  the  surface,  which  pleased  him  much; 
for  when  we  were  hoisted  on  board,  and  he  had  re- 
covered his  senses,  he  threw  his  arms  round  my  neck, 
as  he  would  have  done  to  an  officer. 

"I  do  not  hide  from  you,  dear  mother,  that  this  has 

[98] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

delighted  me.  But  it  isn't  all;  it  seems  that  fishing  up 
the  captain  has  reminded  them  that  I  had  a  good  char- 
acter, and  they  have  just  told  me  that  I  am  promoted 
to  be  a  sailor  of  the  first  class!  Directly  I  knew  it,  I 
cried  out,  'My  mother  shall  have  coffee  twice  a  day!' 
And  really,  dear  mother,  there  is  nothing  now  to  hinder 
you,  as  I  shall  now  have  a  larger  allowance  to  send  you. 

"I  include  by  begging  you  to  take  care  of  yourself 
if  you  wish  to  do  me  good;  for  nothing  makes  me  feel 
so  well  as  to  think  that  you  want  for  nothing. 

"Your  son,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 

"Jacques." 

This  is  the  answer  that  the  portress  dictated  to  me: 

"My  Good  Jacquot:  It  makes  me  very  happy  to  see 
that  your  heart  is  still  as  true  as  ever,  and  that  you  will 
never  shame  those  who  have  brought  you  up.  I  need 
not  tell  you  to  take  care  of  your  life,  because  you  know 
it  is  the  same  as  my  own,  and  that  without  you,  dear 
child,  I  should  wish  for  nothing  but  the  grave;  but  we 
are  not  bound  to  live,  while  we  are  bound  to  do  our 
duty. 

"Do  not  fear  for  my  health,  good  Jacques;  I  was 
never  better !  I  do  not  grow  old  at  all,  for  fear  of  making 
you  unhappy.  I  want  nothing,  and  I  live  like  a  lady. 
I  even  had  some  money  over  this  year,  and  as  my 
drawers  shut  very  badly,  I  put  it  into  the  savings'  bank, 
where  I  have  opened  an  account  in  your  name.  So, 
when  you  come  back,  you  will  find  yourself  with  an  in- 
come. I  have  also  furnished  your  chest  with  new  linen, 
and  I  have  knitted  you  three  new  sea-jackets. 

[99] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

"All  your  friends  are  well.  Your  cousin  is  just  dead, 
leaving  his  widow  in  difficulties.  I  gave  her  your  thirty 
francs'  remittance,  and  said  that  you  had  sent  it  her;  and 
the  poor  woman  remembers  you  day  and  night  in  her 
prayers.  So,  you  see,  I  have  put  that  money  in  another 
sort  of  savings'  bank;  but  there  it  is  our  hearts  that 
get  the  interest. 

"Good-bye,  dear  Jacquot.  Write  to  me  often,  and 
always  remember  the  good  God,  and  your  old  mother, 

"Pkrosine  Millot." 

Good  son,  and  worthy  mother!  how  such  examples 
bring  us  back  to  a  love  for  the  human  race !  In  a  fit  of 
fanciful  misanthropy,  we  may  envy  the  fate  of  the  sav- 
age, and  prefer  that  of  the  bird  to  such  as  he;  but  im- 
partial observation  soon  does  justice  to  such  paradoxes. 
We  find,  on  examination,  that  in  the  mixed  good  and 
evil  of  human  nature,  the  good  so  far  abounds  that  we 
are  not  in  the  habit  of  noticing  it,  while  the  evil  strikes 
us  precisely  on  account  of  its  being  the  exception.  If 
nothing  is  perfect,  nothing  is  so  bad  as  to  be  without  its 
compensation  or  its  remedy.  What  spiritual  riches  are 
there  in  the  midst  of  the  evils  of  society !  how  much  does 
the  moral  world  redeem  the  material ! 

That  which  will  ever  distinguish  man  from  the  rest 
of  creation,  is  his  power  of  deliberate  affection  and  of 
enduring  self-sacrifice.  The  mother  who  took  care  of 
her  brood  in  the  corner  of  my  window  devoted  to  them 
the  necessary  time  for  accomplishing  the  laws  which 
insure  the  preservation  of  her  kind;  but  she  obeyed  an 
instinct,  and  not  a  rational  choice.     When  she  had 

[lOO] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

accomplished  the  mission  appointed  her  by  Providence, 
she  cast  off  the  duty  as  we  get  rid  of  a  burden,  and  she 
returned  again  to  her  selfish  liberty.  The  other  mother, 
on  the  contrary,  will  go  on  with  her  task  as  long  as  God 
shall  leave  her  here  below:  the  life  of  her  son  will  still 
remain,  so  to  speak,  joined  to  her  own;  and  when  she 
disappears  from  the  earth,  she  will  leave  there  that  part 
of  herself. 

Thus,  the  affections  make  for  our  species  an  existence 
separate  from  all  the  rest  of  creation.  Thanks  to  them, 
we  enjoy  a  sort  of  terrestrial  immortality;  and  if  other 
beings  succeed  one  another,  man  alone  perpetuates 
himself. 


[1015 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   FAMILY  OF  MICHAEL  AROUT 

September  i^th,  Eight  O^ clock 

'his  morning,  while  I  was  arranging 
my  books,  Mother  Genevieve  came  in, 
and  brought  me  the  basket  of  fruit  I 
buy  of  her  every  Sunday.  For  the 
nearly  twenty  years  that  I  have  lived 
in  this  quarter,  I  have  dealt  in  her  lit- 
tle fruit-shop.  Perhaps  I  should  be 
better  served  elsewhere,  but  Mother 
Genevieve  has  but  little  custom;  to  leave  her  would 
do  her  harm,  and  cause  her  unnecessary  pain.  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  length  of  our  acquaintance  has 
made  me  incur  a  sort  of  tacit  obligation  to  her;  my 
patronage  has  become  her  property. 

She  has  put  the  basket  upon  my  table,  and  as  I  want 
her  husband,  who  is  a  joiner,  to  add  some  shelves  to  my 
bookcase,  she  has  gone  downstairs  again  immediately 
to  send  him  to  me. 

At  first  I  did  not  notice  either  her  looks  or  the  sound 
of  her  voice :  but,  now  that  I  recall  them,  it  seems  to  me 
that  she  was  not  as  jovial  as  usual.  Can  Mother  Gene- 
vieve be  in  trouble  about  anything  ? 

Poor  woman !  All  her  best  years  were  subject  to  such 
bitter  trials,  that  she  might  think  she  had  received  her 

[I02] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

full  share  already.  Were  I  to  live  a  hundred  years,  I 
should  never  forget  the  circumstances  which  made  her 
known  to  me,  and  which  obtained  for  her  my  respect. 

It  was  at  the  time  of  my  first  settling  in  the  faubourg. 
I  had  noticed  her  empty  fruit-shop,  which  nobody  came 
into,  and,  being  attracted  by  its  forsaken  appearance, 
I  made  my  little  purchases  in  it.  I  have  always  in- 
stinctively preferred  the  poor  shops;  there  is  less  choice 
in  them,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  my  purchase  is  a  sign  of 
sympathy  with  a  brother  in  poverty.  These  little  deal- 
ings are  almost  always  an  anchor  of  hope  to  those  whose 
very  existence  is  in  peril — the  only  means  by  which  some 
orphan  gains  a  livelihood.  There  the  aim  of  the  trades- 
man is  not  to  enrich  himself,  but  to  live !  The  purchase 
you  make  of  him  is  more  than  an  exchange — it  is  a  good 
action. 

Mother  Genevieve  at  that  time  was  still  young,  but  had 
already  lost  that  fresh  bloom  of  youth  which  suffering 
causes  to  wither  so  soon  among  the  poor.  Her  husband, 
a  clever  joiner,  gradually  left  off  working  to  become,  ac- 
cording to  the  picturesque  expression  of  the  workshops, 
a  worshipper  of  Saint  Monday.  The  wages  of  the  week, 
which  was  always  reduced  to  two  or  three  working  days, 
were  completely  dedicated  by  him  to  the  worship  of 
this  god  of  the  Barriers,*  and  Genevieve  was  obliged 
herself  to  provide  for  all  the  wants  of  the  household. 

One  evening,  when  I  went  to  make  some  trifling  pur- 
chases of  her,  I  heard  a  sound  of  quarrelling  in  the  back 
shop.     There  were  the  voices  of  several  women,  among 

*The  cheap  wine  shops  are  outside  the  Barriers,  to  avoid  the  octroi^ 
or  municipal  excise. 

[103] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

which  I  distinguished  that  of  Genevieve,  broken  by 
sobs.  On  looking  farther  in,  I  perceived  the  fruit- 
woman  holding  a  child  in  her  arms,  and  kissing  it,  while 
a  country  nurse  seemed  to  be  claiming  her  wages  from 
her.  The  poor  woman,  who  without  doubt  had  ex- 
hausted every  explanation  and  every  excuse,  was  crying 
in  silence,  and  one  of  her  neighbors  was  trying  in  vain 
to  appease  the  countrywoman.  Excited  by  that  love 
of  money  which  the  evils  of  a  hard  peasant  life  but  too 
well  excuse,  and  disappointed  by  the  refusal  of  her  ex- 
pected wages;  the  nurse  was  launching  forth  in  recrim- 
inations, threats,  and  abuse.  In  spite  of  myself,  I  lis- 
tened to  the  quarrel,  not  daring  to  interfere,  and  not 
thinking  of  going  away,  when  Michael  Arout  appeared 
at  the  shop-door. 

The  joiner  had  just  come  from  the  Barriers,  where  he 
had  passed  part  of  the  day  at  a  public-house.  His 
blouse,  without  a  belt,  and  untied  at  the  throat,  showed 
none  of  the  noble  stains  of  work :  in  his  hand  he  held  his 
cap,  which  he  had  just  picked  up  out  of  the  mud;  his 
hair  was  in  disorder,  his  eye  fixed,  and  the  pallor  of 
drunkenness  in  his  face.  He  came  reeling  in,  looked 
wildly  around  him,  and  called  Genevieve. 

She  heard  his  voice,  gave  a  start,  and  rushed  into  the 
shop;  but  at  the  sight  of  the  miserable  man,  who  was 
trying  in  vain  to  steady  himself,  she  pressed  the  child 
in  her  arms,  and  bent  over  it  with  tears. 

The  countrywoman  and  the  neighbor  had  followed 
her. 

"Come!  come!  do  you  intend  to  pay  me,  after  all?" 
cried  the  former  in  a  rage. 

[104] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

*'Ask  the  master  for  the  money,"  ironically  answered 
the  woman  from  the  next  door,  pointing  to  the  joiner, 
who  had  just  fallen  against  the  counter. 

The  countrywoman  looked  at  him. 

''Ah!  he  is  the  father,"  returned  she.  ''Well,  what 
idle  beggars!  not  to  have  a  penny  to  pay  honest  people, 
and  get  tipsy  with  wine  in  that  way." 

The  drunkard  raised  his  head. 

"What!  what!"  stammered  he;  "who  is  it  that  talks 
of  wine?  I've  had  nothing  but  brandy!  But  I  am 
going  back  again  to  get  some  wine!  Wife,  give  me 
your  money;  there  are  some  friends  waiting  for  me  at 
the  Pere  la  Tuille.^' 

Genevieve  did  not  answer:  he  went  round  the  counter, 
opened  the  till,  and  began  to  rummage  in  it. 

"You  see  where  the  money  of  the  house  goes!"  ob- 
served the  neighbor  to  the  countrywoman;  "how  can 
the  poor  unhappy  woman  pay  you  when  he  takes  all?" 

' '  Is  that  my  fault  ? ' '  replied  the  nurse ,  angrily .  ' '  They 
owe  to  me,  and  somehow  or  other  they  must  pay  me ! " 

And  letting  loose  her  tongue,  as  these  women  out  of 
the  country  do,  she  began  relating  at  length  all  the  care 
she  had  taken  of  the  child,  and  all  the  expense  it  had 
been  to  her.  In  proportion  as  she  recalled  all  she  had 
done,  her  words  seemed  to  convince  her  more  than  ever 
of  her  rights,  and  to  increase  her  anger.  The  poor 
mother,  who  no  doubt  feared  that  her  violence  would 
frighten  the  child,  returned  into  the  back  shop,  and  put 
it  into  its  cradle. 

Whether  it  is  that  the  countrywoman  saw  in  this  act 
a  determination  to  escape  her  claims,  or  that  she  was 

[105] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

blinded  by  passion,  I  cannot  say;  but  she  rushed  into 
the  next  room,  where  I  heard  the  sounds  of  quarreUing, 
with  which  the  cries  of  the  child  were  soon  mingled. 
The  joiner,  who  was  still  rummaging  in  the  till,  was 
startled,  and  raised  his  head. 

At  the  same  moment  Genevieve  appeared  at  the  door, 
holding  in  her  arms  the  baby  that  the  countrywoman 
was  trying  to  tear  from  her.  She  ran  toward  the  coun- 
ter, and  throwing  herself  behind  her  husband,  cried : 

"Michael,  defend  your  son!" 

The  drunken  man  quickly  stood  up  erect,  like  one 
who  awakes  with  a  start. 

"My  son!"  stammered  he;  "what  son?" 

His  looks  fell  upon  the  child;  a  vague  ray  of  intelli- 
gence passed  over  his  features. 

"Robert,"  resumed  he;  "it  is  Robert!" 

He  tried  to  steady  himself  on  his  feet,  that  he  might 
take  the  baby,  but  he  tottered.  The  nurse  approached 
him  in  a  rage. 

"My  money,  or  I  shall  take  the  child  away!"  cried 
she.  "It  is  I  who  have  fed  and  brought  it  up:  if  you 
don't  pay  me  for  what  has  made  it  live,  it  ought  to  be 
the  same  to  you  as  if  it  were  dead.  I  shall  not  go  until 
I  have  my  due,  or  the  baby." 

"And  what  would  you  do  with  him?"  murmured 
Genevieve,  pressing  Robert  against  her  bosom. 

"Take  it  to  the  Foundling!"  replied  the  country- 
woman, harshly;  "the  hospital  is  a  better  mother  than 
you  are,  for  it  pays  for  the  food  of  its  little  ones." 

At  the  word  "Foundling,"  Genevieve  had  exclaimed 
aloud  in  horror.    With  her  arms  wound  round  her  son, 

[io6] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

whose  head  she  hid  in  her  bosom,  and  her  two  hands 
spread  over  him,  she  had  retreated  to  the  wall,  and  re- 
mained with  her  back  against  it,  like  a  lioness  defend- 
ing her  young.  The  neighbor  and  I  contemplated  this 
scene,  without  knowing  how  we  could  interfere.  As 
for  Michael,  he  looked  at  us  by  turns,  making  a  visi- 
ble effort  to  comprehend  it  all.  When  his  eye  rested 
upon  Genevieve  and  the  child,  it  lit  up  with  a  gleam  of 
pleasure;  but  when  he  turned  toward  us,  he  again  be- 
came stupid  and  hesitating. 

At  last,  apparently  making  a  prodigious  effort,  he 
cried  out,  "Wait!" 

And  going  to  a  tub  filled  with  water,  he  plunged  his 
face  into  it  several  times. 

Every  eye  was  turned  upon  him;  the  countrywoman 
herself  seemed  astonished.  At  length  he  raised  his 
dripping  head.  This  ablution  had  partly  dispelled  his 
drunkenness;  he  looked  at  us  for  a  moment,  then  he 
turned  to  Genevieve,  and  his  face  brightened  up. 

"Robert!"  cried  he,  going  up  to  the  child,  and  taking 
him  in  his  arms.  "Ah!  give  him  me,  wife;  I  must  look 
at  him." 

The  mother  seemed  to  give  up  his  son  to  him  with  re- 
luctance, and  stayed  before  him  with  her  arms  extended, 
as  if  she  feared  the  child  would  have  a  fall.  The  nurse 
began  again  in  her  turn  to  speak,  and  renewed  her  claims, 
this  time  threatening  to  appeal  to  law.  At  first  Michael 
listened  to  her  attentively,  and  when  he  comprehended 
her  meaning,  he  gave  the  child  back  to  its  mother. 

"How  much  do  we  owe  you  ?"  asked  he. 

The  countrywoman  began  to  reckon  up  the  different 
[107] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

expenses,  which  amounted  to  nearly  thirty  francs.  The 
joiner  felt  to  the  bottom  of  his  pockets,  but  could  find 
nothing.  His  forehead  became  contracted  by  frowns; 
low  curses  began  to  escape  him.  All  of  a  sudden  he 
rummaged  in  his  breast,  drew  forth  a  large  watch,  and 
holding  it  up  above  his  head 

"Here  it  is — here's  your  money!"  cried  he  with  a  joy- 
ful laugh;  "a  watch,  a  good  one!  I  always  said  it 
would  keep  for  a  drink  on  a  dry  day ;  but  it  is  not  I  who 
will  drink  it,  but  the  young  one.  Ah!  ah!  ah!  go  and 
sell  it  for  me,  neighbor,  and  if  that  is  not  enough,  I  have 
my  earrings.  Eh!  Genevieve,  take  them  off  for  me; 
the  earrings  will  square  all!  They  shall  not  say  you 
have  been  disgraced  on  account  of  the  child — no,  not 
even  if  I  must  pledge  a  bit  of  my  flesh!  My  watch,  my 
earrings,  and  my  ring — get  rid  of  all  of  them  for  me  at 
the  goldsmith's;  pay  the  woman,  and  let  the  little  fool 
go  to  sleep.  Give  him  me,  Genevieve;  I  will  put  him 
to  bed." 

And,  taking  the  baby  from  the  arms  of  his  mother, 
he  carried  him  with  a  firm  step  to  his  cradle. 

It  was  easy  to  perceive  the  change  which  took  place 
in  Michael  from  this  day.  He  cut  all  his  old  drinking 
acquaintances.  He  went  early  every  morning  to  his 
work,  and  returned  regularly  in  the  evening  to  finish  the 
day  with  Genevieve  and  Robert.  Very  soon  he  would 
not  leave  them  at  all,  and  he  hired  a  place  near  the  fruit- 
shop,  and  worked  in  it  on  his  own  account. 

They  would  soon  have  been  able  to  live  in  comfort, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  expenses  which  the  child  re- 
quired.   Everything  was  given  up  to  his  education.    He 

[io8] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

had  gone  through  the  regular  school  training,  had 
studied  mathematics,  drawing,  and  the  carpenter's 
trade,  and  had  only  begun  to  work  a  few  months  ago. 
Till  now,  they  had  been  exhausting  every  resource 
which  their  laborious  industry  could  provide  to  push 
him  forward  in  his  business;  and,  happily,  all  these  ex- 
ertions had  not  proved  useless:  the  seed  had  brought 
forth  fruit,  and  the  days  of  harvest  were  close  by. 

While  I  was  thus  recalling  these  remembrances  to  my 
mind,  Michael  had  come  in,  and  was  occupied  in  fixing 
shelves  where  they  were  wanted. 

During  the  time  I  was  writing  the  notes  of  my  journal, 
I  was  also  scrutinizing  the  joiner. 

The  excesses  of  his  youth  and  the  labor  of  his  man- 
hood have  deeply  marked  his  face;  his  hair  is  thin  and 
gray,  his  shoulders  stoop,  his  legs  are  shrunken  and 
slightly  bent.  There  seems  a  sort  of  weight  in  his  whole 
being.  His  very  features  have  an  expression  of  sorrow 
and  despondency.  He  answers  my  questions  by  mono- 
syllables, and  like  a  man  who  wishes  to  avoid  con- 
versation. Whence  comes  this  dejection,  when  one 
would  think  he  had  all  he  could  wish  for?  I  should 
like  to  know ! 

Ten  o'' clock. — Michael  is  just  gone  downstairs  to  look 
for  a  tool  he  has  forgotten.  I  have  at  last  succeeded 
in  drawing  from  him  the  secret  of  his  and  Genevieve's 
sorrow.     Their  son  Robert  is  the  cause  of  it! 

Not  that  he  has  turned  out  ill  after  all  their  care — 
not  that  he  is  idle  or  dissipated ;  but  both  were  in  hopes 
he  would  never  leave  them  any  more.  The  presence  of 
the  young  man  was  to  have  renewed  and  made  glad  their 

[109] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

lives  once  more ;  his  mother  counted  the  days,  his  father 
prepared  everything  to  receive  their  dear  associate  in 
their  toils;  and  at  the  moment  when  they  were  thus  about 
to  be  repaid  for  all  their  sacrifices,  Robert  had  suddenly 
informed  them  that  he  had  just  engaged  himself  to  a 
contractor  at  Versailles. 

Every  remonstrance  and  every  prayer  were  useless; 
he  brought  forward  the  necessity  of  initiating  himself 
into  all  the  details  of  an  important  contract,  the  facili- 
ties he  should  have  in  his  new  position  of  improving 
himself  in  his  trade,  and  the  hopes  he  had  of  turning 
his  knowledge  to  advantage.  At,  last,  when  his  mother, 
having  come  to  the  end  of  her  arguments,  began  to  cry, 
he  hastily  kissed  her,  and  went  away  that  he  might  avoid 
any  further  remonstrances. 

He  had  been  absent  a  year,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
give  them  hopes  of  his  return.  His  parents  hardly  saw 
him  once  a  month,  and  then  he  only  stayed  a  few  mo- 
ments with  them. 

"  I  have  been  punished  where  I  had  hoped  to  be  re- 
warded," Michael  said  to  me  just  now.  "I  had  wished 
for  a  saving  and  industrious  son,  and  God  has  given  me 
an  ambitious  and  avaricious  one !  I  had  always  said  to 
myself  that  when  once  he  was  grown  up  we  should  have 
him  always  with  us,  to  recall  our  youth  and  to  enliven 
our  hearts.  His  mother  was  always  thinking  of  getting 
him  married,  and  having  children  again  to  care  for. 
You  know  women  always  will  busy  themselves  about 
others.  As  for  me,  I  thought  of  him  working  near  my 
bench,  and  singing  his  new  songs;  for  he  has  learnt 
music,  and  is  one  of  the  best  singers  at  the  Orpheon. 

[no] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

A  dream,  sir,  truly!  Directly  the  bird  was  fledged,  he 
took  to  flight,  and  remembers  neither  father  nor  mother. 
Yesterday,  for  instance,  was  the  day  we  expected  him; 
he  should  have  come  to  supper  with  us.  No  Robert 
to-day,  either!  He  has  had  some  plan  to  finish,  or  some 
bargain  to  arrange,  and  his  old  parents  are  put  down 
last  in  the  accounts,  after  the  customers  and  the  joiner's 
work.  Ah!  if  I  could  have  guessed  how  it  would  have 
turned  out!  Fool!  to  have  sacrificed  my  likings  and 
my  money,  for  nearly  twenty  years,  to  the  education  of  a 
thankless  son !  Was  it  for  this  I  took  the  trouble  to  cure 
myself  of  drinking,  to  break  with  my  friends,  to  become 
an  example  to  the  neighborhood?  The  jovial  good 
fellow  has  made  a  goose  of  himself.  Oh!  if  I  had  to 
begin  again !  No,  no !  you  see  women  and  children  are 
our  bane.  They  soften  our  hearts;  they  lead  us  a  life 
of  hope  and  affection;  we  pass  a  quarter  of  our  lives  in 
fostering  the  growth  of  a  grain  of  com  which  is  to  be 
everything  to  us  in  our  old  age,  and  when  the  harvest- 
time  comes — good -night,  the  ear  is  empty! " 

While  he  was  speaking,  Michael's  voice  became 
hoarse,  his  eyes  fierce,  and  his  lips  quivered.  I  wished 
to  answer  him,  but  I  could  only  think  of  commonplace 
consolations,  and  I  remained  silent.  The  joiner  pre- 
tended he  needed  a  tool,  and  left  me. 

Poor  father!  Ah!  I  know  those  moments  of  tempta- 
tion when  virtue  has  failed  to  reward  us,  and  we  regret 
having  obeyed  her!  Who  has  not  felt  this  weakness  in 
hours  of  trial,  and  who  has  not  uttered,  at  least  once, 
the  mournful  exclamation  of  Brutus  ? 

But  if  virtue  is  only  a  word,  what  is  there  then  in  life 
[III] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

that  is  true  and  real?  No,  I  will  not  believe  that 
goodness  is  in  vain !  It  does  not  always  give  the  happi- 
ness we  had  hoped  for,  but  it  brings  some  other.  In 
the  world  everything  is  ruled  by  order,  and  has  its 
proper  and  necessary  consequences,  and  virtue  cannot 
be  the  sole  exception  to  the  general  law.  If  it  had  been 
prejudicial  to  those  who  practised  it,  experience  would 
have  avenged  them ;  but  experience  has,  on  the  con- 
trary, made  it  more  universal  and  more  holy.  We  only 
accuse  it  of  being  a  faithless  debtor  because  We  demand 
an  immediate  payment,  and  one  apparent  to  our  senses. 
We  always  consider  life  as  a  fairy-tale,  in  which  every 
good  action  must  be  rewarded  by  a  visible  wonder. 
We  do  not  accept  as  payment  a  peaceful  conscience, 
self-content,  or  a  good  name  among  men — treasures 
that  are  more  precious  than  any  other,  but  the  value  of 
which  we  do  not  feel  till  after  we  have  lost  them! 

Michael  is  come  back,  and  has  returned  to  his  work. 
His  son  has  not  yet  arrived. 

By  telling  me  of  his  hopes  and  his  grievous  disap- 
pointments, he  became  excited;  he  unceasingly  went 
over  again  the  same  subject,  always  adding  something 
to  his  griefs.  He  had  just  wound  up  his  confidential 
discourse  by  speaking  to  me  of  a  joiner's  business  which 
he  had  hoped  to  buy,  and  work  to  good  account  with 
Robert's  help.  The  present  owner  had  made  a  fortune 
by  it,  and,  after  thirty  years  of  business,  he  was  thinking 
of  retiring  to  one  of  the  ornamental  cottages  in  the  out- 
skirts of  the  city,  a  usual  retreat  for  the  frugal  and  suc- 
cessful workingman.  Michael  had  not  indeed  the 
two  thousand  francs  which  must  be  paid  down;  but 

[112] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

perhaps  he  could  have  persuaded  Master  Benoit  to 
wait.  Robert's  presence  would  have  been  a  security 
for  him,  for  the  young  man  could  not  fail  to  insure  the 
prosperity  of  a  workshop;  besides  science  and  skill,  he 
had  the  power  of  invention  and  bringing  to  perfection. 
His  father  had  discovered  among  his  drawings  a  new 
plan  for  a  staircase,  which  had  occupied  his  thoughts 
for  a  long  time;  and  he  even  suspected  him  of  having 
engaged  himself  to  the  Versailles  contractor  for  the  very 
purpose  of  executing  it.  The  youth  was  tormented  by 
this  spirit  of  invention,  which  took  possession  of  all  his 
thoughts,  and,  while  devoting  his  mind  to  study,  he  had 
no  time  to  listen  to  his  feelings. 

Michael  told  me  all  this  with  a  mixed  feeling  of  pride 
and  vexation.  I  saw  he  was  proud  of  the  son  he  was 
abusing,  and  that  his  very  pride  made  him  more  sensi- 
tive to  that  son's  neglect. 

Six  o^clock  P.M. — I  have  just  finished  a  happy  day. 
How  many  events  have  happened  within  a  few  hours, 
and  what  a  change  for  Genevieve  and  Michael ! 

He  had  just  finished  fixing  the  shelves,  and  tell- 
ing me  of  his  son,  while  I  laid  the  cloth  for  my  break- 
fast. 

Suddenly  we  heard  hurried  steps  in  the  passage,  the 
door  opened,  and  Genevieve  entered  with  Robert. 

The  joiner  gave  a  start  of  joyful  surprise,  but  he  re- 
pressed it  immediately,  as  if  he  wished  to  keep  up  the 
appearance  of  displeasure. 

The  young  man  did  not  appear  to  notice  it,  but  threw 
himself  into  his  arms  in  an  open-hearted  manner,  which 
surprised  me.  Genevieve,  whose  face  shone  with  hap- 
8  [113] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

piness,  seemed  to  wish  to  speak,  and  to  restrain  herself 
with  difficulty. 

I  told  Robert  I  was  glad  to  see  him,  and  he  answered 
me  with  ease  and  civility. 

"I  expected  you  yesterday,"  said  Michael  Arout, 
rather  dryly. 

"Forgive  me,  father,"  replied  the  young  workman, 
"but  I  had  business  at  St.  Germain's.  I  was  not  able 
to  come  back  till  it  was  very  late,  and  then  the  master 
kept  me." 

The  joiner  looked  at  his  son  sidewise,  and  then  took 
up  his  hammer  again. 

"All  right,"  muttered  he,  in  a  grumbling  tone;  "when 
we  are  with  other  people  we  must  do  as  they  wish ;  but 
there  are  some  who  would  like  better  to  eat  brown 
bread  with  their  own  knife  than  partridges  with  the 
silver  fork  of  a  master." 

"And  I  am  one  of  those,  father,"  replied  Robert, 
merrily,  "but,  as  the  proverb  says,  "you  must 
shell  the  peas  before  you  can  eat  them."  It  was 
necessary  that  I  should  first  work  in  a  great  work- 
shop  " 

"To  go  on  with  your  plan  of  the  staircase,"  inter- 
rupted Michael,  ironically. 

"You  must  now  say  Monsieur  Raymond's  plan, 
father,"  replied  Robert,  smiling. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  have  sold  it  to  him." 

The  joiner,  who  was  planing  a  board,  turned  round 
quickly. 

"Sold  it!"  cried  he,  with  sparkling  eyes. 
[114] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

"For  the  reason  that  I  was  not  rich  enough  to  give  it 
him." 

Michael  threw  down  the  board  and  tool. 

''There  he  is  again!"  resumed  he,  angrily;  "his  good 
genius  puts  an  idea  into  his  head  which  would  have 
made  him  known,  and  he  goes  and  sells  it  to  a  rich  man, 
who  will  take  the  honor  of  it  himself." 

"Well,  what  harm  is  there  done?"  asked  Genevieve. 

"What  harm!"  cried  the  joiner,  in  a  passion.  "You 
understand  nothing  about  it — you  are  a  woman;  but 
he — he  knows  well  that  a  true  workman  never  gives  up 
his  own  inventions  for  money,  no  more  than  a  soldier 
would  give  up  his  cross.  That  is  his  glory;  he  is  bound 
to  keep  it  for  the  honor  it  does  him!  Ah,  thunder!  if  I 
had  ever  made  a  discovery,  rather  than  put  it  up  at  auc- 
tion I  would  have  sold  one  of  my  eyes!  Don't  you  see 
that  a  new  invention  is  like  a  child  to  a  workman  ?  He 
takes  care  of  it,  he  brings  it  up,  he  makes  a  way  for  it 
in  the  world,  and  it  is  only  a  poor  creature  who  sells  it." 

Robert  colored  a  little. 

"You  will  think  differently,  father,"  said  he,  "when 
you  know  why  I  sold  my  plan." 

"Yes,  and  you  will  thank  him  for  it,"  added  Gene- 
vieve, who  could  no  longer  keep  silence. 

"Never !"  replied  Michael. 

"But,  wretched  man!"  cried  she,  "he  sold  it  only  for 
our  sakes!" 

The  joiner  looked  at  his  wife  and  son  with  astonish- 
ment. It  was  necessary  to  come  to  an  explanation. 
The  latter  related  how  he  had  entered  into  a  negotia- 
tion with  Master  Benoit,  who  had  positively  refused 

[115] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

to  sell  his  business  unless  one  half  of  the  two  thousand 
francs  were  first  paid  down.  It  was  in  the  hopes  of  ob- 
taining this  sum  that  he  had  gone  to  work  with  the  con- 
tractor at  Versailles;  he  had  had  an  opportunity  of  try- 
ing his  invention,  and  of  finding  a  purchaser.  Thanks 
to  the  money  he  received  for  it,  he  had  just  concluded 
the  bargain  with  Benoit,  and  had  brought  his  father  the 
key  of  the  new  Vv^ork-yard. 

This  explanation  was  given  by  the  young  workman 
with  so  much  modesty  and  simplicity  that  I  was  quite 
affected  by  it.  Genevieve  cried;  Michael  pressed  his 
son  to  his  heart,  and  in  a  long  embrace  he  seemed  to  ask 
his  pardon  for  having  unjustly  accused  him. 

All  was  now  explained  with  honor  to  Robert.  The 
conduct  which  his  parents  had  ascribed  to  indifference 
really  sprang  from  affection ;  he  had  neither  obeyed  the 
voice  of  ambition  nor  of  avarice,  nor  even  the  nobler 
inspiration  of  inventive  genius;  his  whole  motive  and 
single  aim  had  been  the  happiness  of  Genevieve  and 
Michael.  The  day  for  proving  his  gratitude  had  come, 
and  he  had  returned  them  sacrifice  for  sacrifice ! 

After  the  explanations  and  exclamations  of  joy  were 
over,  all  three  were  about  to  leave  me;  but,  the  cloth 
being  laid,  I  added  three  more  places,  and  kept  them  to 
breakfast. 

The  meal  was  prolonged:  the  fare  was  only  tolerable; 
but  the  overflowings  of  affection  made  it  delicious. 
Never  had  I  better  understood  the  unspeakable  charm 
of  family  love.  What  calm  enjoyment  in  that  happiness 
which  is  always  shared  with  others;  in  that  community 
of  interests  which  unites  such  various  feelings;  in  that 

[ii6] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

association  of  existences  which  forms  one  single  being 
of  so  many!  What  is  man  without  those  home  affec- 
tions, which,  Hke  so  many  roots,  fix  him  firmly  in  the 
earth,  and  permit  him  to  imbibe  all  the  juices  of  life? 
Energy,  happiness — do  not  all  these  come  from  them  ? 
Without  family  life  where  would  man  learn  to  love,  to 
associate,  to  deny  himself?  A  community  in  little,  is 
it  not  this  which  teaches  us  how  to  live  in  the  great 
one?  Such  is  the  hoHness  of  home,  that,  to  express  our 
relation  with  God,  we  have  been  obliged  to  borrow 
the  words  invented  for  our  family  life.  Men  have 
named  themselves  the  sons  of  a  heavenly  Father ! 

Ah !  let  us  carefully  preserve  these  chains  of  domestic 
union.  Do  not  let  us  unbind  the  human  sheaf,  and 
scatter  its  ears  to  all  the  caprices  of  chance  and  of  the 
winds;  but  let  us  rather  enlarge  this  holy  law;  let  us 
carry  the  principles  and  the  habits  of  home  beyond  sit 
bounds;  and,  if  it  may  be,  let  us  reaHze  the  prayer  of  the 
Apostle  of  the  Gentiles  when  he  exclaimed  to  the  new- 
born children  of  Christ:  "Be  ye  like-minded,  having 
the  same  love,  being  of  one  accord,  of  one  mind."* 

♦Philippians  ii.  2. 


[117] 


CHAPTER  X 

OUR  COUNTRY 

October  12th,  Seven  O^ clock  A.M. 

^HE  nights  are  already  become  cold  and 
long;  the  sun,  shining  through  my  cur- 
tains, no  more  wakens  me  long  before 
the  hour  for  work ;  and  even  when  my 
eyes  are  open,  the  pleasant  warmth  of 
the  bed  keeps  me  fast  under  my  coun- 
terpane. Every  morning  there  begins 
a  long  argument  between  my  activity 
and  my  indolence;  and,  snugly  wrapped  up  to  the  eyes, 
I  wait  like  the  Gascon,  until  they  have  succeeded  in 
coming  to  an  agreement. 

This  morning,  however,  a  light,  which  shone  from 
my  door  upon  my  pillow,  awoke  me  earlier  than  usual. 
In  vain  I  turned  on  my  side;  the  persevering  light,  like 
a  victorious  enemy,  pursued  me  into  every  position. 
At  last,  quite  out  of  patience,  I  sat  up  and  hurled  my 
nightcap  to  the  foot  of  the  bed ! 

(I  will  observe,  by  way  of  parenthesis,  that  the 
various  evolutions  of  this  pacific  headgear  seem 
to  have  been,  from  the  remotest  time,  symbols  of 
the  vehement  emotions  of  the  mind;  for  our  language 
has  borrowed  its  most  common  images  from  them. 
Thus  we   say :   Mettre  son  bonnet  de  tr avers;  jeter  son 

[118] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

bonnet  par-dessus  les  moulins;  avoir  la  tete  prh  du 
bonnet,  etc.* ) 

But  be  this  as  it  may,  I  got  up  in  a  very  bad  humor, 
grumbling  at  my  new  neighbor,  who  took  it  into  his 
head  to  be  wakeful  when  I  wished  to  sleep.  We  are 
all  made  thus;  we  do  not  understand  that  others  may 
live  on  their  own  account.  Each  one  of  us  is  like  the 
earth,  according  to  the  old  system  of  Ptolemy,  and 
thinks  he  can  have  the  whole  universe  revolve  around 
himself.  On  this  point,  to  make  use  of  the  metaphor 
alluded  to :  Tous  les  hommes  ont  la  tete  dans  le  meme 
bonnet,  t 

I  had  for  the  time  being,  as  I  have  already  said, 
thrown  mine  to  the  other  end  of  my  bed;  and  I  slowly 
disengaged  my  legs  from  the  warm  bedclothes,  while 
making  a  host  of  evil  reflections  upon  the  inconvenience 
of  having  neighbors. 

For  more  than  a  month  I  had  not  had  to  complain  of 
those  whom  chance  had  given  me;  most  of  them  only 
came  in  to  sleep,  and  went  away  again  on  rising.  I  was 
almost  always  alone  on  this  top  story — alone  with  the 
clouds  and  the  sparrows ! 

But  at  Paris  nothing  lasts;  the  current  of  life  carries 
us  along,  like  the  seaweed  torn  from  the  rock;  the 
houses  are  vessels  which  take  mere  passengers.  How 
many  different  faces  have  I  already  seen  pass  along  the 
landing-place  belonging  to  our  attics !  How  many  com- 
panions of  a  few  days  have  disappeared  forever!    Some 

*  To  be  in  a  bad  humor ;  to  brave  the  opinions  of  the  world ;  to  be 
angry  about  a  trifle. 

f  Said  of  those  who  are  of  the  same  opinions  and  tastes. 

[119] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

are  lost  in  that  medley  of  the  Hving  which  whirls  con- 
tinually under  the  scourge  of  necessity,  and  others  in 
that  resting-place  of  the  dead,  who  sleep  under  the 
hand  of  God! 

Peter  the  bookbinder  is  one  of  these  last.  Wrapped 
up  in  selfishness,  he  lived  alone  and  friendless,  and  he 
died  as  he  had  lived.  His  loss  was  neither  mourned  by 
any  one,  nor  disarranged  anything  in  the  world;  there 
was  merely  a  ditch  filled  up  in  the  graveyard,  and  an 
attic  emptied  in  our  house. 

It  is  the  same  which  my  new  neighbor  has  inhabited 
for  the  last  few  days. 

To  say  truly  (now  that  I  am  quite  awake,  and  my  ill 
humor  is  gone  with  my  nightcap) — to  say  truly,  this  new 
neighbor,  although  rising  earlier  than  suits  my  idleness, 
is  not  the  less  a  very  good  man:  he  carries  his  misfor- 
tunes, as  few  know  how  to  carry  their  good  fortunes, 
with  cheerfulness  and  moderation. 

But  fate  has  cruelly  tried  him.  Father  Chaufour  is 
but  the  wreck  of  a  man.  In  the  place  of  one  of  his  arms 
hangs  an  empty  sleeve;  his  left  leg  is  made  by  the 
turner,  and  he  drags  the  right  along  with  difficulty; 
but  above  these  ruins  rises  a  calm  and  happy  face. 
While  looking  upon  his  countenance,  radiant  with  a 
serene  energy,  while  listening  to  his  voice,  the  tone  of 
which  has,  so  to  speak,  the  accent  of  goodness,  we 
see  that  the  soul  has  remained  entire  in  the  half- 
destroyed  covering.  The  fortress  is  a  little  damaged, 
as  Father  Chaufour  says,  but  the  garrison  is  quite 
hearty. 

Decidedly,  the  more  I  think  of  this  excellent  man, 
[120] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

the  more  I  reproach  myself  for  the  sort  of  malediction 
I  bestowed  on  him  when  I  awoke. 

We  are  generally  too  indulgent  in  our  secret  wrongs 
toward  our  neighbor.  All  ill-will  which  does  not  pass 
the  region  of  thought  seems  innocent  to  us,  and,  with 
our  clumsy  justice,  we  excuse  without  examination  the 
sin  which  does  not  betray  itself  by  action ! 

But  are  we  then  bound  to  others  only  by  the  enforce- 
ment of  laws  ?  Besides  these  external  relations,  is  there 
not  a  real  relation  of  feeling  between  men  ?  Do  we  not 
owe  to  all  those  who  live  under  the  same  heaven  as  our- 
selves the  aid  not  only  of  our  acts  but  of  our  purposes  ? 
Ought  not  every  human  life  to  be  to  us  like  a  vessel  that 
we  accompany  with  our  prayers  for  a  happy  voyage? 
It  is  not  enough  that  men  do  not  harm  one  another; 
they  must  also  help  and  love  one  another!  The  papal 
benediction,  Urbi  et  orbi!  should  be  the  constant  cry 
from  all  hearts.  To  condemn  him  who  does  not  de- 
serve it,  even  in  the  mind,  even  by  a  passing  thought, 
is  to  break  the  great  law,  that  which  has  established  the 
union  of  souls  here  below,  and  to  which  Christ  has 
given  the  sweet  name  of  charity. 

These  thoughts  came  into  my  mind  as  I  finished 
dressing,  and  I  said  to  myself  that  Father  Chaufour 
had  a  right  to  reparation  from  me.  To  make  amends 
for  the  feeling  of  ill-will  I  had  against  him  just  now,  I 
owed  him  some  explicit  proof  of  sympathy.  I  heard 
him  humming  a  tune  in  his  room ;  he  was  at  work,  and 
I  determined  that  I  would  make  the  first  neighborly 
call. 

Eight  o^clock  P.M. — I  found  Father  Chaufour  at  a 

[121] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

table  lighted  by  a  little  smoky  lamp,  without  a  fire, 
although  it  is  already  cold,  and  making  large  paste- 
board boxes ;  he  was  humming  a  popular  song  in  a  low 
tone.  I  had  hardly  entered  the  room  when  he  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  pleasure. 

"Eh!  is  it  you,  neighbor?  Come  in,  then!  I  did  not 
think  you  got  up  so  early,  so  I  put  a  damper  on  my  mu- 
sic; I  was  afraid  of  waking  you." 

Excellent  man !  while  I  was  sending  him  to  the  devil 
he  was  putting  himself  out  of  his  w^ay  for  me ! 

This  thought  touched  me,  and  I  paid  my  comph- 
ments  on  his  having  become  my  neighbor  with  a 
warmth  which  opened  his  heart. 

"Faith!  you  seem  to  me  to  have  the  look  of  a  good 
Christian,"  said  he  in  a  voice  of  soldierlike  cordiaUty,  and 
shaking  me  by  the  hand.  "I  do  not  like  those  people 
who  look  on  a  landing-place  as  a  frontier  line,  and  treat 
their  neighbors  as  if  they  were  Cossacks.  When  men 
snuff  the  same  air,  and  speak  the  same  lingo,  they  are 
not  meant  to  turn  their  backs  to  each  other.  Sit  down 
there,  neighbor;  I  don't  mean  to  order  you;  only  take 
care  of  the  stool;  it  has  but  three  legs,  and  we  must  put 
good- will  in  place  of  the  fourth." 

"It  seems  that  that  is  a  treasure  which  there  is  no 
want  of  here,"  I  observed. 

"Good-will!"  repeated  Chaufour;  "that  is  all  my 
mother  left  me,  and  I  take  it  no  son  has  received  a 
better  inheritance.  Therefore  they  used  to  call  me 
Monsieur  Conte^it  in  the  batteries." 

"You  are  a  soldier,  then?" 

"  I  served  in  the  Third  Artillery  under  the  Republic, 
[122] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

and  afterward  in  the  Guard,  through  all  the  commo- 
tions. I  was  at  Jemappes  and  at  Waterloo ;  so  I  was  at 
the  christening  and  at  the  burial  of  our  glory,  as  one 
may  say!" 

I  looked  at  him  with  astonishment. 

"And  how  old  were  you  then,  at  Jemappes?" 
asked  I. 

''Somewhere  about  fifteen,"  said  he. 

"How  came  you  to  think  of  being  a  soldier  so  early?" 

"I  did  not  really  think  about  it.  I  then  worked  at 
toy-making,  and  never  dreamed  that  France  would  ask 
me  for  anything  else  than  to  make  her  draught-boards, 
shuttlecocks,  and  cups  and  balls.  But  I  had  an  old 
uncle  at  Vincennes  whom  I  went  to  see  from  time  to 
time — a  Fontenoy  veteran  in  the  same  rank  of  life  as 
myself,  but  with  ability  enough  to  have  risen  to  that  of 
a  marshal.  Unluckily,  in  those  days  there  was  no  way 
for  common  people  to  get  on.  My  uncle,  whose  services 
would  have  got  him  made  a  prince  under  the  other,  had 
then  retired  with  the  mere  rank  of  sub-lieutenant.  But 
you  should  have  seen  him  in  his  uniform,  his  cross  of 
St.  Louis,  his  wooden  leg,  his  white  moustaches,  and  his 
noble  countenance.  You  would  have  said  he  was  a 
portrait  of  one  of  those  old  heroes  in  powdered  hair 
which  are  at  Versailles ! 

"Every  time  I  visited  him,  he  said  something  which 
remained  fixed  in  my  memory.  But  one  day  I  found 
him  quite  grave. 

"'Jerome,'  said  he,  'do  you  know  what  is  going  on 
on  the  frontier  ? ' 

"'No,  lieutenant,'  replied  I. 
[123  J 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

"'Well,'  resumed  he,  'our  country  is  in  danger!' 

"I  did  not  well  understand  him,  and  yet  it  seemed 
something  to  me. 

"'Perhaps  you  have  never  thought  what  your  coun- 
try means,'  continued  he,  placing  his  hand  on  my  shoul- 
der; 'it  is  all  that  surrounds  you,  all  that  has  brought 
you  up  and  fed  you,  all  that  you  have  loved!  This 
ground  that  you  see,  these  houses,  these  trees,  those 
girls  who  go  along  there  laughing — this  is  your  country ! 
The  laws  which  protect  you,  the  bread  which  pays  for 
your  work,  the  words  you  interchange  with  others,  the 
joy  and  grief  which  come  to  you  from  the  men  and 
things  among  which  you  live — this  is  your  country! 
The  little  roo'.ii  where  you  used  to  see  your  mother,  the 
remembrances  she  has  left  you,  the  earth  where  she 
rests — this  is  your  country!  You  see  it,  you  breathe  it, 
everywhere!  Think  to  yourself,  my  son,  of  your  rights 
and  your  duties,  your  affections  and  your  wants,  your 
past  and  your  present  blessings ;  write  them  all  under  a 
single  name — and  that  name  will  be  your  country!' 

"  I  was  trembling  with  emotion,  and  great  tears  were 
in  my  eyes. 

"'Ah!  I  understand,'  cried  I;  'it  is  our  home  in 
large;  it  is  that  part  of  the  world  where  God  has  placed 
our  body  and  our  soul.' 

'"You  are  right,  Jerome,'  continued  the  old  soldier; 
*so  you  comprehend  also  what  we  owe  it.' 

"'Truly,'  resumed  I,  'we  owe  it  all  that  we  are;  it 
is  a  question  of  love.' 

"'And  of  honesty,  my  son,'  concluded  he.  'The 
member  of  a  family  who  does  not  contribute  his  share 

[  124] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

of  work  and  of  happiness  fails  in  his  duty,  and  is  a  bad 
kinsman;  the  member  of  a  partnership  who  does  not 
enrich  it  with  all  his  might,  with  all  his  courage,  and 
with  all  his  heart,  defrauds  it  of  what  belongs  to  it,  and 
is  a  dishonest  man.  It  is  the  same  with  him  who  enjoys 
the  advantages  of  having  a  country,  and  does  not  ac- 
cept the  burdens  of  it;  he  forfeits  his  honor,  and  is  a 
bad  citizen!' 

"'And  what  must  one  do,  lieutenant,  to  be  a  good 
citizen?'  asked  I. 

"'Do  for  your  country  what  you  would  do  for  your 
father  and  mother,'  said  he. 

"I  did  not  answer  at  the  moment;  my  heart  was 
swelling,  and  the  blood  boiling  in  my  veins;  but  on  re- 
turning along  the  road,  my  uncle's  words  were,  so  to 
speak,  written  up  before  my  eyes.  I  repeated,  'Do  for 
your  country  what  you  would  do  for  your  father  and 
mother.'  And  my  country  is  in  danger;  an  enemy  at- 
tacks it,  while  I — I  turn  cups  and  balls! 

"This  thought  tormented  me  so  much  all  night  that 
the  next  day  I  returned  to  Vincennes  to  announce  to 
the  lieutenant  that  I  had  just  enlisted,  and  was  going 
off  to  the  frontier.  The  brave  man  pressed  upon  me 
his  cross  of  St.  Louis,  and  I  went  away  as  proud  as  an 
ambassador. 

"That  is  how,  neighbor,  I  became  a  volunteer  under 
the  Republic  before  I  had  cut  my  wisdom  teeth." 

All  this  was  told  quietly,  and  in  the  cheerful  spirit  of 
him  who  looks  upon  an  accomplished  duty  neither  as  a 
merit  nor  a  grievance. 

While  he  spoke.  Father  Chaufour  grew  animated,  not 

[125] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

on  account  of  himself,  but  of  the  general  subject.  Evi- 
dently that  which  occupied  him  in  the  drama  of  life  was 
not  his  own  part,  but  the  drama  itself. 

This  sort  of  disinterestedness  touched  me.  I  pro- 
longed my  visit,  and  showed  myself  as  frank  as  possible, 
in  order  to  win  his  confidence  in  return.  In  an  hour's 
time  he  knew  my  position  and  my  habits;  I  was  on  the 
footing  of  an  old  acquaintance. 

I  even  confessed  the  ill-humor  the  light  of  his  lamp 
put  me  into  a  short  time  before.  He  took  what  I  said 
with  the  touching  cheerfulness  which  comes  from  a 
heart  in  the  right  place,  and  which  looks  upon  every- 
thing on  the  good  side.  He  neither  spoke  to  me  of  the 
necessity  which  obliged  him  to  work  while  I  could  sleep, 
nor  of  the  deprivations  of  the  old  soldier  compared  to 
the  luxury  of  the  young  clerk ;  he  only  struck  his  fore- 
head, accused  himself  of  thoughtlessness,  and  promised 
to  put  list  round  his  door! 

O  great  and  beautiful  soul!  with  whom  nothing 
turns  to  bitterness,  and  who  art  peremptory  only  in 
duty  and  benevolence! 

October  i$th. — This  morning  I  was  looking  at  a  little 
engraving  I  had  framed  myself,  and  hung  over  my 
writing-table ;  it  is  a  design  of  Gavarni's,  in  which,  in 
a  grave  mood,  he  has  represented  a  veteran  and  a 
conscript. 

By  often  contemplating  these  two  figures,  so  differ- 
ent in  expression,  and  so  true  to  life,  both  have  become 
living  in  my  eyes;  I  have  seen  them  move,  I  have  heard 
them  speak;  the  picture  has  become  a  real  scene,  at 
which  I  am  present  as  spectator. 

[126] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

The  veteran  advances  slowly,  his  hand  leaning  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  young  soldier.  His  eyes,  closed  for 
ever,  no  longer  perceive  the  sun  shining  through  the 
flowering  chestnut-trees.  In  the  place  of  his  right  arm 
hangs  an  empty  sleeve,  and  he  walks  with  a  wooden 
leg,  the  sound  of  which  on  the  pavement  makes  those 
who  pass  turn  to  look. 

At  the  sight  of  this  ancient  wreck  from  our  patriotic 
wars,  the  greater  number  shake  their  heads  in  pity,  and 
I  seem  to  hear  a  sigh  or  an  imprecation. 

"See  the  worth  of  glory!"  says  a  portly  merchant, 
turning  away  his  eyes  in  horror. 

"What  a  deplorable  use  of  human  life!"  rejoins  a 
young  man  who  carries  a  volume  of  philosophy  under 
his  arm. 

"The  trooper  would  better  not  have  left  his  plow," 
adds  a  countryman,  with  a  cunning  air. 

"Poor  old  man!"  murmurs  a  woman,  almost  crying. 

The  veteran  has  heard,  and  he  knits  his  brow;  for  it 
seems  to  him  that  his  guide  has  grown  thoughtful.  The 
latter,  attracted  by  what  he  hears  around  him,  hardly 
answers  the  old  man's  questions,  and  his  eyes,  vaguely 
lost  in  space,  seem  to  be  seeking  there  for  the  solution 
of  some  problem. 

I  seem  to  see  a  twitching  in  the  gray  moustaches  of  the 
veteran;  he  stops  abruptly,  and,  holding  back  his  guide 
with  his  remaining  arm 

"They  all  pity  me,"  says  he,  "because  they  do  not 
understand  it;  but  if  I  were  to  answer  them " 

"What  would  you  say  to  them,  father?"  asks  the 
young  man,  with  curiosity. 

[127] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

"I  should  say  first  to  the  woman  who  weeps  when  she 
looks  at  me,  to  keep  her  tears  for  other  misfortunes; 
for  each  of  my  wounds  calls  to  mind  some  struggle  for 
my  colors.  There  is  room  for  doubting  how  some  men 
have  done  their  duty;  with  me  it  is  visible.  I  carry  the 
account  of  my  services,  written  with  the  enemy's  steel 
and  lead,  on  myself;  to  pity  me  for  having  done  my 
duty  is  to  suppose  I  would  better  have  been  false  to  it." 

"And  what  would  you  say  to  the  countryman, 
father?" 

"  I  should  tell  him  that,  to  drive  the  plow  in  peace,  we 
must  first  secure  the  country  itself;  and  that,  as  long 
as  there  are  foreigners  ready  to  eat  our  harvest,  there 
must  be  arms  to  defend  it." 

"But  the  young  student,  too,  shook  his  head  when  he 
lamented  such  a  use  of  life." 

"Because  he  does  not  know  what  self-sacrifice  and 
suffering  can  teach.  The  books  that  he  studies  we 
have  put  in  practice,  though  we  never  read  them:  the 
principles  he  applauds  we  have  defended  with  powder 
and  bayonet." 

"And  at  the  price  of  your  limbs  and  your  blood.  The 
merchant  said,  when  he  saw  your  maimed  body,  'See 
the  worth  of  glory ! ' " 

"Do  not  believe  him,  my  son:  the  true  glory  is  the 
bread  of  the  soul;  it  is  this  which  nourishes  self-sacri- 
fice, patience,  and  courage.  The  Master  of  all  has  be- 
stowed it  as  a  tie  the  more  between  men.  When  we 
desire  to  be  distinguished  by  our  brethren,  do  we  not 
thus  prove  our  esteem  and  our  sympathy  for  them? 
The  longing  for  admiration  is  but  one  side  of  love.    No, 

[128] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

no;  the  true  glory  can  never  be  too  dearly  paid  for! 
That  which  we  should  deplore,  child,  is  not  the  in- 
firmities which  prove  a  generous  self-sacrifice,  but 
those  which  our  vices  or  our  imprudence  have  called 
forth.  Ah!  if  I  could  speak  aloud  to  those  who,  when 
passing,  cast  looks  of  pity  upon  mc,  I  should  say  to  the 
young  man  whose  excesses  have  dimmed  his  sight  be- 
fore he  is  old,  'What  have  you  done  with  your  eyes?' 
To  the  slothful  man,  who  with  difhculty  drags  along  his 
enervated  mass  of  flesh, '  What  have  you  done  with  your 
feet  ? '  To  the  old  man,  who  is  punished  for  his  intem- 
perance by  the  gout,  'What  have  you  done  with  your 
hands?'  To  all,  'What  have  you  done  with  the  days 
God  granted  you,  with  the  faculties  you  should  have 
employed  for  the  good  of  your  brethren  ? '  If  you  can- 
not answer,  bestow  no  more  of  your  pity  upon  the  old 
soldier  maimed  in  his  country's  cause;  for  he — he  at 
least — can  show  his  scars  without  shame." 

October  i6th. — The  little  engraving  has  made  me 
comprehend  better  the  merits  of  Father  Chaufour,  and 
I  therefore  esteem  him  all  the  more. 

He  has  just  now  left  my  attic.  There  no  longer 
passes  a  single  day  without  his  coming  to  work  by  my 
fire,  or  my  going  to  sit  and  talk  by  his  board. 

The  old  artilleryman  has  seen  much,  and  likes  to  tell 
of  it.  For  twenty  years  he  was  an  armed  traveller 
throughout  Europe,  and  he  fought  without  hatred,  for 
he  was  possessed  by  a  single  thought — the  honor  of  the 
national  flag!  It  might  have  been  his  superstition,  if 
you  will;  but  it  was,  at  the  same  time,  his  safeguard. 

The  word  France,  which  was  then  resounding  so 
9  [129] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

gloriously  through  the  world,  served  as  a  talisman  to 
him  against  all  sorts  of  temptation.  To  have  to  sup- 
port a  great  name  may  seem  a  burden  to  vulgar  minds, 
but  it  is  an  encouragement  to  vigorous  ones. 

"I,  too,  have  had  many  moments,"  said  he  to  me  the 
other  day,  ''when  I  have  been  tempted  to  make  friends 
with  the  devil.  War  is  not  precisely  the  school  for  rural 
virtues.  By  dint  of  burning,  destroying,  and  killing, 
you  grow  a  little  tough  as  regards  your  feelings;  'and, 
when  the  bayonet  has  made  you  king,  the  notions  of  an 
autocrat  come  into  your  head  a  little  strongly.  But  at 
these  moments  I  called  to  mind  that  country  which  the 
lieutenant  spoke  of  to  me,  and  I  whispered  to  myself 
the  well-known  phrase,  Toujours  Frangais!  It  has 
been  laughed  at  since.  People  who  would  make  a  joke 
of  the  death  of  their  mother  have  turned  it  into  ridicule, 
as  if  the  name  of  our  country  was  not  also  a  noble  and 
a  binding  thing.  For  my  part,  I  shall  never  forget  from 
how  many  follies  the  title  of  Frenchman  has  kept  me. 
When,  overcome  with  fatigue,  I  have  found  myself  in 
the  rear  of  the  colors,  and  when  the  musketry  was  rat- 
tling in  the  front  ranks,  many  a  time  I  heard  a  voice, 
which  whispered  in  my  ear,  '  Leave  the  others  to  fight, 
and  for  to-day  take  care  of  your  own  hide ! '  But  then, 
that  word  Frangais !  murmured  within  me,  and  I 
pressed  forward  to  help  my  comrades.  At  other  times, 
when,  irritated  by  hunger,  cold,  and  wounds,  I  have  ar- 
rived at  the  hovel  of  some  Meinherr,  I  have  been  seized 
by  an  itching  to  break  the  master's  back,  and  to  bum 
his  hut;  but  I  whispered  to  myself,  Frangais!  and  this 
name  would  not  rhyme  with  either  incendiary  or  mur- 

[130] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

derer.  I  have,  in  this  way,  passed  through  kingdoms 
from  east  to  west,  and  from  north  to  south,  always  de- 
termined not  to  bring  disgrace  upon  my  country's  flag. 
The  Heutenant,  you  see,  had  taught  me  a  magic  word — 
My  country !  Not  only  must  we  defend  it,  but  we  must 
also  make  it  great  and  loved." 

October  iph. — To-day  I  have  paid  my  neighbor  a 
long  visit.  A  chance  expression  led  the  way  to  his  tell- 
ing me  more  of  himself  than  he  had  yet  done. 

I  asked  him  whether  both  his  limbs  had  been  lost  in 
the  same  battle. 

"No,  no!"  replied  he;  "the  cannon  only  took  my 
leg;  it  was  the  Clamart  quarries  that  my  arm  went  to 
feed." 

And  when  I  asked  him  for  the  particulars 

"That's  as  easy  as  to  say  good-morning,"  continued 
he.  "After  the  great  break-up  at  Waterloo,  I  stayed 
three  months  in  the  camp  hospital  to  give  my  wooden 
leg  time  to  grow.  As  soon  as  I  was  able  to  hobble  a 
little,  I  took  leave  of  headquarters,  and  took  the  road  to 
Paris,  where  I  hoped  to  find  some  relative  or  friend; 
but  no — all  were  gone,  or  underground.  I  should  have 
found  myself  less  strange  at  Vienna,  Madrid,  or  Berlin. 
And  although  I  had  a  leg  the  less  to  provide  for,  I  was 
none  the  better  off;  my  appetite  had  come  back,  and 
my  last  sous  were  taking  flight. 

"I  had  indeed  met  my  old  colonel,  who  recollected 
that  I  had  helped  him  out  of  the  skirmish  at  Montereau 
by  giving  him  my  horse,  and  he  had  offered  me  bed  and 
board  at  his  house.  I  knew  that  the  year  before  he  had 
married  a  castle  and  no  few  farms,  so  that  I  might  be- 

[131] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

come  permanent  coat-brusher  to  a  millionaire,  which 
was  not  without  its  temptations.  It  remained  to  see  if  I 
had  not  anything  better  to  do.  One  evening  I  set  my- 
self to  reflect  upon  it. 

"'Let  us  see,  Chaufour,'  said  I  to  myself;  'the  ques- 
tion is  to  act  like  a  man.  The  colonel's  place  suits  you, 
but  cannot  you  do  anything  better?  Your  body  is  still 
in  good  condition,  and  your  arms  strong;  do  you  not 
owe  all  your  strength  to  your  country,  as  your  Vincennes 
uncle  said  ?  Why  not  leave  some  old  soldier,  more  cut 
up  than  you  are,  to  get  his  hospital  at  the  colonel's? 
Come,  trooper,  you  are  still  fit  for  another  stout  charge 
or  two!    You  must  not  lay  up  before  your  time.' 

"Whereupon  I  went  to  thank  the  colonel,  and  to 
offer  my  services  to  an  old  artilleryman,  who  had  gone 
back  to  his  home  at  Clamart,  and  who  had  taken  up  the 
quarryman's  pick  again. 

"For  the  first  few  months  I  played  the  conscript's 
part — that  is  to  say,  there  was  more  stir  than  work; 
but  with  a  good  will  one  gets  the  better  of  stones,  as  of 
everything  else.  I  did  not  become,  so  to  speak,  the 
leader  of  a  column,  but  I  brought  up  the  rank  among 
the  good  workmen,  and  I  ate  my  bread  with  a  good 
appetite,  seeing  I  had  earned  it  with  a  good  will.  For 
even  underground,  you  see,  I  still  kept  my  pride.  The 
thought  that  I  was  working  to  do  my  part  in  changing 
rocks  into  houses  pleased  my  heart.  I  said  to  myself, 
'Courage,  Chaufour,  my  old  boy;  you  are  helping  to 
beautify  your  country.'    And  that  kept  up  my  spirit. 

"Unfortunately,  some  of  my  companions  were  rather 
too  sensible  to   the  charms  of  the  brandy-bottle;    so 

[132] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

much  so,  that  one  day  one  of  them,  who  could  hardly 
distinguish  his  right  hand  from  his  left,  thought  proper 
to  strike  a  light  close  to  a  charged  mine.  The  mine  ex- 
ploded suddenly,  and  sent  a  shower  of  stone  grape 
among  us,  which  killed  three  men,  and  carried  away 
the  arm  of  which  I  have  now  only  the  sleeve." 

''So  you  were  again  without  means  of  living?"  said  I 
to  the  old  soldier. 

"That  is  to  say,  I  had  to  change  them,"  replied  he, 
quietly.  "The  difficulty  was  to  find  one  which  would 
do  with  five  fingers  instead  of  ten;  I  found  it,  how- 
ever." 

"How  was  that?" 

"Among  the  Paris  street-sweepers." 

"What!  you  have  been  one " 

"Of  the  pioneers  of  the  health  force  for  a  while, 
neighbor,  and  that  was  not  my  worst  time  either.  The 
corps  of  sweepers  is  not  so  low  as  it  is  dirty,  I  can  tell 
you!  There  are  old  actresses  in  it  who  could  never 
learn  to  save  their  money,  and  ruined  merchants  from 
the  exchange ;  we  even  had  a  professor  of  classics,  who 
for  a  little  drink  would  recite  Latin  to  you,  or  Greek 
tragedies,  as  you  chose.  They  could  not  have  competed 
for  the  Monthyon  prize;  but  we  excused  faults  on  ac- 
count of  poverty,  and  cheered  our  poverty  by  our  good- 
humor  and  jokes.  I  was  as  ragged  and  as  cheerful  as 
the  rest,  while  trying  to  be  something  better.  Even  in 
the  mire  of  the  gutter  I  preserved  my  faith  that  nothing 
is  dishonorable  which  is  useful  to  our  country. 

"'Chaufour,'  said  I  to  myself  with  a  smile,  'after  the 
sword,  the  hammer;    after  the  hammer,  the  broom; 

[133] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

you  are  going  downstairs,  my  old  boy,  but  you  are  still 
serving  your  country.'" 

"'However,  you  ended  by  leaving  your  new  profes- 
sion?' said  I. 

"A  reform  was  required,  neighbor.  The  street- 
sweepers  seldom  have  their  feet  dry,  and  the  damp  at 
last  made  the  wounds  in  my  good  leg  open  again.  I 
could  no  longer  follow  the  regiment,  and  it  was  neces- 
sary to  lay  down  my  arms.  It  is  now  two  months  since 
I  left  off  working  in  the  sanitary  department  of  Paris. 

"At  the  first  moment  I  was  daunted.  Of  my  four 
limbs,  I  had  now  only  my  right  hand,  and  even  that  had 
lost  its  strength ;  so  it  was  necessary  to  find  some  gen- 
tlemanly occupation  for  it.  After  trying  a  little  of  ev- 
erything, I  fell  upon  card-box  making,  and  here  I  am 
at  cases  for  the  lace  and  buttons  of  the  national  guard; 
it  is  work  of  little  profit,  but  it  is  within  the  capacity  of 
all.  By  getting  up  at  four  and  working  till  eight,  I  earn 
sixty-five  centimes;  my  lodging  and  bowl  of  soup  take 
fifty  of  them,  and  there  are  three  sous  over  for  luxuries. 
So  I  am  richer  than  France  herself,  for  I  have  no  deficit 
in  my  budget ;  and  I  continue  to  serve  her,  as  I  save  her 
lace  and  buttons." 

At  these  words  Father  Chaufour  looked  at  me  with 
a  smile,  and  with  his  great  scissors  began  cutting  the 
green  paper  again  for  his  cardboard  cases.  My  heart 
was  touched,  and  I  remained  lost  in  thought. 

Here  is  still  another  member  of  that  sacred  phalanx 
who,  in  the  battle  of  life,  always  march  in  front  for  the 
example  and  the  salvation  of  the  world !  Each  of  these 
brave  soldiers  has  his  war-cry;  for  this  one  it  is  " Coun- 

[134] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

try,"  for  tiat  '^Home,"  for  a  third  "Mankind;"  but 
they  all  follow  the  same  standard — that  of  duty;  for  all 
the  same  divine  law  reigns — that  of  self-sacriiice.  To 
love  something  more  than  one's  self — that  is  the  secret 
of  all  that  is  great;  to  know  how  to  live  for  others — 
that  is  the  aim  of  all  noble  souls. 


[135I 


CHAPTER  XI 

MORAL  USE   OF   INVENTORIES 

November  13//^,  Nine  O^ clock  P.M. 

HAD  well  stopped  up  the  chinks  of  my 
window;  my  little  carpet  was  nailed 
down  in  its  place ;  my  lamp,  provided 
with  its  shade,  cast  a  subdued  light 
around,  and  my  stove  made  a  low, 
murmuring  sound,  as  if  some  live  crea- 
ture was  sharing  my  hearth  with  me. 
All  was  silent  around  me.  But,  out 
of  doors  the  snow  and  rain  swept  the  roofs,  and  with 
a  low,  rushing  sound  ran  along  the  gurgling  gutters; 
sometimes  a  gust  of  wind  forced  itself  beneath  the  tiles, 
which  rattled  together  like  castanets,  and  afterward  it 
was  lost  in  the  empty  corridor.  Then  a  slight  and 
pleasurable  shiver  thrilled  through  my  veins:  I  drew 
the  flaps  of  my  old  wadded  dressing-gown  around  me, 
I  pulled  my  threadbare  velvet  cap  over  my  eyes,  and, 
letting  myself  sink  deeper  into  my  easy-chair,  while 
my  feet  basked  in  the  heat  and  light  which  shone 
through  the  door  of  the  stove,  I  gave  myself  up  to  a 
sensation  of  enjoyment,  made  more  lively  by  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  storm  which  raged  without.  My 
eyes,  swimming  in  a  sort  of  mist,  wandered  over  all 
the  details  of  my  peaceful  abode;  they  passed  from 

[136] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

my  prints  to  my  bookcase,  resting  upon  the  little 
chintz  sofa,  the  white  curtains  of  the  iron  bedstead, 
and  the  portfolio  of  loose  papers  —  those  archives 
of  the  attics;  and  then,  returning  to  the  book  I  held 
in  my  hand,  they  attempted  to  seize  once  more  the 
thread  of  the  reading  which  had  been  thus  inter- 
rupted. 

In  fact,  this  book,  the  subject  of  which  had  at  first  in- 
terested me,  had  become  painful  to  me.  I  had  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  pictures  of  the  writer  were  too 
sombre.  His  description  of  the  miseries  of  the  world 
appeared  exaggerated  to  me ;  I  could  not  believe  in  such 
excess  of  poverty  and  of  suffering;  neither  God  nor 
man  could  show  themselves  so  harsh  toward  the  sons 
of  Adam.  The  author  had  yielded  to  an  artistic  temp- 
tation :  he  was  making  a  show  of  the  sufferings  of  hu- 
manity, as  Nero  burned  Rome  for  the  sake  of  the 
picturesque. 

Taken  altogether,  this  poor  human  house,  so  often 
repaired,  so  much  criticised,  is  still  a  pretty  good  abode; 
we  may  find  enough  in  it  to  satisfy  our  wants,  if  we 
know  how  to  set  bounds  to  them;  the  happiness  of  the 
wise  man  costs  but  little,  and  asks  but  little  space. 

These  consoling  reflections  became  more  and  more 
confused.  At  last  my  book  fell  on  the  ground  without 
my  having  the  resolution  to  stoop  and  take  it  up  again ; 
and  insensibly  overcome  by  the  luxury  of  the  silence, 
the  subdued  light,  and  the  warmth,  I  fell  asleep. 

I  remained  for  some  time  lost  in  the  sort  of  insensi- 
bility belonging  to  a  first  sleep ;  at  last  some  vague  and 
broken  sensations  came  over  me.    It  seemed  to  me  that 

[137] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

the  day  grew  darker,  that  the  air  became  colder.  I  half 
perceived  bushes  covered  with  the  scarlet  berries  which 
foretell  the  coming  of  winter.  I  walked  on  a  dreary 
road,  bordered  here  and  there  with  juniper-trees  white 
with  frost.  Then  the  scene  suddenly  changed.  I  was 
in  the  diligence;  the  cold  wind  shook  the  doors  and 
windows;  the  trees,  loaded  with  snow,  passed  by  like 
ghosts;  in  vain  I  thrust  my  benumbed  feet  into  the 
crushed  straw.  At  last  the  carriage  stopped,  and,  by 
one  of  those  stage  effects  so  common  in  sleep,  I  found 
myself  alone  in  a  barn,  without  a  fireplace,  and  open  to 
the  winds  on  all  sides.  I  saw  again  my  mother's  gentle 
face,  known  only  to  me  in  my  early  childhood,  the 
noble  and  stern  countenance  of  my  father,  the  little  fair 
head  of  my  sister,  who  was  taken  from  us  at  ten  years 
old;  all  my  dead  family  lived  again  around  me;  they 
were  there,  exposed  to  the  bitings  of  the  cold  and  to  the 
pangs  of  hunger.  My  mother  prayed  by  the  resigned 
old  man,  and  my  sister,  rolled  up  on  some  rags  of  which 
they  had  made  her  a  bed,  wept  in  silence,  and  held  her 
naked  feet  in  her  little  blue  hands. 

It  was  a  page  from  the  book  I  had  just  read  trans- 
ferred into  my  own  existence. 

My  heart  was  oppressed  with  inexpressible  anguish. 
Crouched  in  a  corner,  with  my  eyes  fixed  upon  this  dis- 
mal picture,  I  felt  the  cold  slowly  creeping  upon  me, 
and  I  said  to  myself  with  bitterness: 

"Let  us  die,  since  poverty  is  a  dungeon  guarded  by 
suspicion,  apathy,  and  contempt,  and  from  which  it  is 
vain  to  try  to  escape;  let  us  die,  since  there  is  no  place 
for  us  at  the  banquet  of  the  living!" 

[138I 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

And  I  tried  to  rise  to  join  my  mother  again,  and  to 
wait  at  her  feet  for  the  hour  of  release. 

This  effort  dispelled  my  dream,  and  I  awoke  with  a 
start. 

I  looked  around  me;  my  lamp  was  expiring,  the  fire 
in  my  stove  extinguished,  and  my  half-opened  door  was 
letting  in  an  icy  wind.  I  got  up,  with  a  shiver,  to  shut 
and  double-lock  it;  then  I  made  for  the  alcove,  and 
went  to  bed  in  haste. 

But  the  cold  kept  me  awake  a  long  time,  and  my 
thoughts  continued  the  interrupted  dream. 

The  pictures  I  had  lately  accused  of  exaggeration 
now  seemed  but  a  too  faithful  representation  of  reality; 
and  I  went  to  sleep  without  being  able  to  recover  my 
optimism — or  my  warmth. 

Thus  did  a  cold  stove  and  a  badly  closed  door  alter 
my  point  of  view.'  All  went  well  when  my  blood  circu- 
lated properly;  all  looked  gloomy  when  the  cold  laid 
hold  on  me. 

This  reminds  me  of  the  story  of  the  duchess  who  was 
obliged  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  neighboring  convent  on  a 
winter's  day.  The  convent  was  poor,  there  was  no 
wood,  and  the  monks  had  nothing  but  their  discipline 
and  the  ardor  of  their  prayers  to  keep  out  the  cold. 
The  duchess,  who  was  shivering  with  cold,  returned 
home,  greatly  pitying  the  poor  monks.  While  the  ser- 
vants were  taking  off  her  cloak  and  adding  two  more 
logs  to  her  fire,  she  called  her  steward,  whom  she  or- 
dered to  send  some  wood  to  the  convent  immediately. 
She  then  had  her  couch  moved  close  to  the  fireside,  the 
warmth  of  which  soon  revived  her.    The  recollection  of 

[139] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

what  she  had  just  suffered  was  speedily  lost  in  her  pres- 
ent comfort,  when  the  steward  came  in  again  to  ask 
how  many  loads  of  wood  he  was  to  send. 

"Oh!  you  may  wait,"  said  the  great  lady  carelessly; 
"the  weather  is  very  much  milder." 

Thus,  man's  judgments  are  formed  less  from  reason 
than  from  sensation;  and  as  sensation  comes  to  him 
from  the  outward  world,  so  he  finds  himself  more  or 
less  under  its  influence ;  by  little  and  little  he  imbibes  a 
portion  of  his  habits  and  feelings  from  it. 

It  is  not,  then,  without  cause  that,  when  we  wish  to 
judge  of  a  stranger  beforehand,  we  look  for  indications 
of  his  character  in  the  circumstances  which  surround 
him.  The  things  among  which  we  live  are  necessarily 
made  to  take  our  image,  and  we  unconsciously  leave  in 
them  a  thousand  impressions  of  our  minds.  As  we  can 
judge  by  an  empty  bed  of  the  height  and  attitude  of  him 
who  has  slept  in  it,  so  the  abode  of  every  man  discovers 
to  a  close  observer  the  extent  of  his  intelligence  and  the 
feelings  of  his  heart.  Bernardin  de  St.-Pierre  has  re- 
lated the  story  of  a  young  girl  who  refused  a  suitor  be- 
cause he  would  never  have  flowers  or  domestic  animals 
in  his  house.  Perhaps  the  sentence  was  severe,  but  not 
without  reason.  We  may  presume  that  a  man  insen- 
sible to  beauty  and  to  humble  affection  must  be  ill  pre- 
pared to  feel  the  enjoyments  of  a  happy  marriage. 

14th,  seven  o\lock  p.m. — This  morning,  as  I  was 
opening  my  journal  to  write,  I  had  a  visit  from  our  old 
cashier. 

His  sight  is  not  so  good  as  it  was,  his  hand  begins  to 
shake,  and  the  work  he  was  able  to  do  formerly  is  now 

[140] 


AN    "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

becoming  somewhat  laborious  to  him.  I  had  under- 
taken to  write  out  some  of  his  papers,  and  he  came  for 
those  I  had  finished. 

We  conversed  a  long  time  by  the  stove,  while  he  was 
drinking  a  cup  of  coffee  which  I  made  him  take. 

M,  Rateau  is  a  sensible  man,  who  has  observed 
much  and  speaks  little;  so  that  he  has  always  some- 
thing to  say. 

While  looking  over  the  accounts  I  had  prepared  for 
him,  his  look  fell  upon  my  journal,  and  I  was  obliged 
to  acknowledge  that  in  this  way  I  wrote  a  diary  of  my 
actions  and  thoughts  every  evening  for  private  use. 
From  one  thing  to  another,  I  began  speaking  to  him  of 
my  dream  the  day  before,  and  my  reflections  about  the 
influence  of  outward  objects  upon  our  ordinary  senti- 
ments.   He  smiled. 

"Ah!  you,  too,  have  my  superstitions,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "I  have  always  believed,  like  you,  that  you 
may  know  the  game  by  the  lair :  it  is  only  necessary  to 
have  tact  and  experience ;  but  without  them  we  commit 
ourselves  to  many  rash  judgments.  For  my  part,  I 
have  been  guilty  of  this  more  than  once,  but  some- 
times I  have  also  drawn  a  right  conclusion.  I  recollect 
especiaUy  an  adventure  which  goes  as  far  back  as  the 
first  years  of  my  youth " 

He  stopped.  I  looked  at  him  as  if  I  waited  for  his 
story,  and  he  told  it  me  at  once. 

At  this  time  he  was  still  but  third  clerk  to  an  attorney 
at  Orleans.  His  master  had  sent  him  to  Montargis 
on  different  affairs,  and  he  intended  to  return  in  the 
diligence  the  same  evening,  after  having  received  the 

[141] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

amount  of  a  bill  at  a  neighboring  town ;  but  they  kept 
him  at  the  debtor's  house,  and  when  he  was  able  to  set 
out  the  day  had  already  closed. 

Fearing  not  to  be  able  to  reach  Montargis  in  good 
time,  he  took  a  crossroad  they  pointed  out  to  him. 
Unfortunately  the  fog  increased,  no  star  was  visible 
in  the  heavens,  and  the  darkness  became  so  great 
that  he  lost  his  road.  He  tried  to  retrace  his  steps, 
passed  twenty  footpaths,  and  at  last  was  completely 
astray. 

After  the  vexation  of  losing  his  place  in  the  diligence, 
came  the  feeling  of  uneasiness  as  to  his  situation.  He 
was  alone,  on  foot,  lost  in  a  forest,  without  any  means 
of  finding  his  right  road  again,  and  with  a  considerable 
sum  of  money  about  him,  for  which  he  was  responsible. 
His  anxiety  was  increased  by  his  inexperience.  The 
idea  of  a  forest  was  connected  in  his  mind  with  so  many 
adventures  of  robbery  and  murder,  that  he  expected 
some  fatal  encounter  every  instant. 

To  say  the  truth,  his  situation  was  not  encouraging. 
The  place  was  not  considered  safe,  and  for  some  time 
past  there  had  been  rumors  of  the  sudden  disappear- 
ance of  several  horse-dealers,  though  there  was  no  trace 
of  any  crime  having  been  committed. 

Our  young  traveller,  with  his  eyes  staring  forward, 
and  his  ears  listening,  followed  a  footpath  which  he  sup- 
posed might  take  him  to  some  house  or  road;  but 
woods  always  succeeded  to  woods.  At  last  he  per- 
ceived a  light  at  a  distance,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
he  reached  the  highroad. 

A  single  house,  the  light  from  which  had  attracted 
[  142  ] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

him,  appeared  at  a  little  distance.  He  was  going  toward 
the  entrance  gate  of  the  courtyard,  when  the  trot  of  a 
horse  made  him  turn  his  head.  A  man  on  horseback 
had  just  appeared  at  the  turning  of  the  road,  and  in  an 
instant  was  close  to  him. 

The  first  words  he  addressed  to  the  young  man 
showed  him  to  be  the  farmer  himself.  He  related  how 
he  had  lost  himself,  and  learned  from  the  countryman 
that  he  was  on  the  road  to  Pithiviers.  Montargis  was 
three  leagues  behind  him. 

The  fog  had  insensibly  changed  into  a  drizzling  rain, 
which  was  beginning  to  wet  the  young  clerk  through; 
he  seemed  afraid  of  the  distance  he  had  still  to  go,  and 
the  horseman,  who  saw  his  hesitation,  invited  him  to 
come  into  the  farmhouse. 

It  had  something  of  the  look  of  a  fortress.  Sur- 
rounded by  a  pretty  high  wall,  it  could  not  be  seen  ex- 
cept through  the  bars  of  the  great  gate,  which  was  care- 
fully closed.  The  farmer,  who  had  got  off  his  horse, 
did  not  go  near  it,  but,  turning  to  the  right,  reached  an- 
other entrance  closed  in  the  same  way,  but  of  which  he 
had  the  key. 

Hardly  had  he  passed  the  threshold  when  a  terrible 
barking  resounded  from  each  end  of  the  yard.  The 
farmer  told  his  guest  to  fear  nothing,  and  showed  him 
the  dogs  chained  up  to  their  kennels;  both  wxre  of  an 
extraordinary  size,  and  so  savage  that  the  sight  of  their 
master  himself  could  not  quiet  them. 

A  boy,  attracted  by  their  barking,  came  out  of  the 
house  and  took  the  farmer's  horse.  The  latter  began 
questioning  him  about  some  orders  he  had  given  before 

[143] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

he  left  the  house,  and  went  toward  the  stable  to  see  that 
they  had  been  executed. 

Thus  left  alone,  our  clerk  looked  about  him. 

A  lantern  which  the  boy  had  placed  on  the  ground 
cast  a  dim  light  over  the  courtyard.  All  around  seemed 
empty  and  deserted.  Not  a  trace  was  visible  of  the  dis- 
order often  seen  in  a  country  farmyard,  and  which 
shows  a  temporary  cessation  of  the  work  which  is  soon 
to  be  resumed  again.  Neither  a  cart  forgotten  where 
the  horses  had  been  unharnessed,  nor  sheaves  of  corn 
heaped  up  ready  for  threshing,  nor  a  plow  overturned 
in  a  corner  and  half  hidden  under  the  freshly-cut  clover. 
The  yard  was  swept,  the  barns  shut  up  and  padlocked. 
Not  a  single  vine  creeping  up  the  walls;  everywhere 
stone,  wood,  and  iron! 

He  took  up  the  lantern  and  went  up  to  the  corner  of 
the  house.  Behind  was  a  second  yard,  where  he  heard 
the  barking  of  a  third  dog,  and  a  covered  wall  was  built 
in  the  middle  of  it. 

Our  traveller  looked  in  vain  for  the  little  farm  gar- 
den, where  pumpkins  of  different  sorts  creep  along  the 
ground,  or  where  the  bees  from  the  hives  hum  under 
the  hedges  of  honeysuckle  and  elder.  Verdure  and 
flowers  were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  He  did  not  even  per- 
ceive the  sight  of  a  poultry-yard  or  pigeon-house.  The 
habitation  of  his  host  was  everywhere  wanting  in  that 
which  makes  the  grace  and  the  life  of  the  country. 

The  young  man  thought  that  his  host  must  be  of  a 
very  careless  or  a  very  calculating  disposition,  to  con- 
cede so  little  to  domestic  enjoyments  and  the  pleasures 
of  the  eye;   and  judging,  in  spite  of  himself,  by  what 

[144] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

he  saw,  he  could  not  help  feeling  a  distrust  of  his 
character. 

■    In  the  mean  time  the  farmer  returned  from  the  sta- 
bles, and  made  him  enter  the  house. 

The  inside  of  the  farmhouse  corresponded  to  its  out- 
side. The  whitewashed  walls  had  no  other  ornament 
than  a  row  of  guns  of  all  sizes;  the  massive  furniture 
hardly  redeemed  its  clumsy  appearance  by  its  great 
solidity.  The  cleanliness  was  doubtful,  and  the  ab- 
sence of  all  minor  conveniences  proved  that  a  woman's 
care  was  wanting  in  the  household  concerns.  The 
young  clerk  learned  that  the  farmer,  in  fact,  lived  here 
with  no  one  but  his  two  sons. 

Of  this,  indeed,  the  signs  were  plain  enough.  A 
table  with  the  cloth  laid,  that  no  one  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  clear  away,  was  left  near  the  window.  The 
plates  and  dishes  were  scattered  upon  it  without  any 
order,  and  loaded  with  potato-parings  and  half-picked 
bones.  Several  empty  bottles  emitted  an  odor  of 
brandy,  mixed  with  the  pungent  smell  of  tobacco-smoke 

After  seating  his  guest,  the  farmer  lighted  his  pipe, 
and  his  two  sons  resumed  their  work  by  the  fireside. 
Now  and  then  the  silence  was  just  broken  by  a  short 
remark,  answered  by  a  word  or  an  exclamation;  and 
then  all  became  as  mute  as  before. 

"From  my  childhood,"  said  the  old  cashier,  "I  had 
been  very  sensible  to  the  impression  of  outward  ob- 
jects; later  in  life,  reflection  had  taught  me  to  study  the 
causes  of  these  impressions  rather  than  to  drive  them 
away.  I  set  myself,  then,  to  examine  everything  around 
me  with  great  attention. 

lo  [ 145  ] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

"Below  the  guns,  I  had  remarked  on  entering,  some 
wolf- traps  were  suspended,  and  to  one  of  them  still 
hung  the  mangled  remains  of  a  wolf's  paw,  which  they 
had  not  yet  taken  off  from  the  iron  teeth.  The  black- 
ened chimneypiece  was  ornamented  by  an  owl  and  a 
raven  nailed  on  the  wall,  their  wings  extended,  and 
their  throats  with  a  huge  nail  through  each;  a  fox's 
skin,  freshly  flayed,  was  spread  before  the  window;  and 
a  larder  hook,  fixed  into  the  principal  beam,  held  a' 
headless  goose,  whose  body  swayed  about  over  our 
heads. 

"My  eyes  were  offended  by  all  these  details,  and  I 
turned  them  again  upon  my  hosts.  The  father,  who 
sat  opposite  to  me,  only  interrupted  his  smoking  to 
pour  out  his  drink,  or  address  some  reprimand  to  his 
sons.  The  eldest  of  these  was  scraping  a  deep  bucket, 
and  the  bloody  scrapings,  which  he  threw  into  the  fire 
every  instant,  filled  the  room  with  a  disagreeable  fetid 
smell;  the  second  son  was  sharpening  some  butcher's 
knives.  I  learned  from  a  word  dropped  from  the  father 
that  they  were  preparing  to  kill  a  pig  the  next  day. 

"These  occupations  and  the  whole  aspect  of  things 
inside  the  house  told  of  such  habitual  coarseness  in 
their  way  of  living  as  seemed  to  explain,  while  it  formed 
the  fitting  counterpart  of,  the  forbidding  gloominess  of 
the  outside.  My  astonishment  by  degrees  changed  into 
disgust,  and  my  disgust  into  uneasiness.  I  cannot  de- 
tail the  whole  chain  of  ideas  which  succeeded  one  an- 
other in  my  imagination;  but,  yielding  to  an  impulse 
I  could  not  overcome,  I  got  up,  declaring  I  would  go  on 
my  road  again. 

[146] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

"The  farmer  made  some  effort  to  keep  me;  he  spoke 
of  the  rain,  of  the  darkness,  and  of  the  length  of  the 
way.  I  replied  to  all  by  the  absolute  necessity  there 
was  for  my  being  at  Montargis  that  very  night;  and 
thanking  him  for  his  brief  hospitality,  I  set  o£f  again  in 
a  haste  which  might  well  have  confirmed  the  truth  of 
my  words  to  him. 

"However,  the  freshness  of  the  night  and  the  exer- 
cise of  walking  did  not  fail  to  change  the  directions  of 
my  thoughts.  When  away  from  the  objects  which  had 
awakened  such  lively  disgust  in  me,  I  felt  it  gradually 
diminishing.  I  began  to  smile  at  the  susceptibility  of 
my  feelings,  and  then,  in  proportion  as  the  rain  became 
heavier  and  colder,  these  strictures  on  myself  assumed 
a  tone  of  ill-temper.  I  silently  accused  myself  of  the 
absurdity  of  mistaking  sensation  for  admonitions  of  my 
reason.  After  all,  were  not  the  farmer  and  his  sons  free 
to  live  alone,  to  hunt,  to  keep  dogs,  and  to  kill  a  pig? 
Where  was  the  crime  of  it  ?  With  less  nervous  suscepti- 
bility, I  should  have  accepted  the  shelter  they  offered 
me,  and  I  should  now  be  sleeping  snugly  on  a  truss  of 
straw,  instead  of  walking  with  difficulty  through  the 
cold  and  drizzling  rain.  I  thus  continued  to  reproach 
myself,  until,  toward  morning,  I  arrived  at  Montargis, 
jaded  and  benumbed  with  cold. 

"When,  however,  I  got  up  refreshed,  toward  the 
middle  of  the  next  day,  I  instinctively  returned  to  my 
first  opinion.  The  appearance  of  the  farmhouse  pre- 
sented itself  to  me  under  the  same  repulsive  colors 
which  the  evening  before  had  determined  me  to  make 
my  escape  from  it.    Reason  itself  remained  silent  when 

[147] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

reviewing  all  those  coarse  details,  and  was  forced  to 
recognize  in  them  the  indications  of  a  low  nature,  or 
else  the  presence  of  some  baleful  influence. 

"I  went  away  the  next  day  without  being  able  to 
learn  anything  concerning  the  farmer  or  his  sons;  but 
the  recollection  of  my  adventure  remained  deeply  fixed 
in  my  memory. 

"Ten  years  afterward  I  was  travelling  in  the  dili- 
gence through  the  department  of  the  Loiret;  I  was 
leaning  from  the  window,  and  looking  at  some  coppice 
ground  now  for  the  first  time  brought  under  cultiva- 
tion, and  the  mode  of  clearing  which  one  of  my  travel- 
ling companions  was  explaining  to  me,  when  my  eyes 
fell  upon  a  walled  inclosure,  with  an  iron-barred  gate. 
Inside  it  I  perceived  a  house  with  all  the  blinds  closed, 
and  which  I  immediately  recollected;  it  was  the  farm- 
house where  I  had  been  sheltered.  I  eagerly  pointed  it 
out  to  my  companion,  and  asked  who  lived  in  it. 

'"Nobody  just  now,'  replied  he. 

"'But  was  it  not  kept,  some  years  ago,  by  a  farmer 
and  his  two  sons  ? ' 

"'The  Turreaus,'  said  my  travelling  companion, 
looking  at  me ;  '  did  you  know  them  ? ' 

"'I  saw  them  once.' 

"He  shook  his  head. 

"'Yes,  yes !'  resumed  he;  'for  many  years  they  lived 
there  like  wolves  in  their  den;  they  merely  knew  how 
to  till  land,  kill  game,  and  drink.  The  father  managed 
the  house,  but  men  living  alone,  without  women  to  love 
them,  without  children  to  soften  them,  and  without  God 
to  make  them  think  of  heaven,  always  turn  into  wild 

[148] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

beasts,  you  see;  so  one  morning  the  eldest  son,  who  had 
been  drinking  too  much  brandy,  would  not  harness  the 
plow-horses;  his  father  struck  him  with  his  whip,  and 
the  son,  who  was  mad  drunk,  shot  him  dead  with  his 
gun.'" 

i6th,  P.M. — I  have  been  thinking  of  the  story  of  the 
old  cashier  these  two  days;  it  came  so  opportunely 
upon  the  reflections  my  dream  had  suggested  to  me. 

Have  I  not  an  important  lesson  to  learn  from  all  this  ? 

If  our  sensations  have  an  incontestable  influence  upon 
our  judgments,  how  comes  it  that  we  are  so  little  careful 
of  those  things  which  awaken  or  modify  these  sensa- 
tions? The  external  world  is  always  reflected  in  us  as 
in  a  mirror,  and  fills  our  minds  with  pictures  which,  un- 
consciously to  ourselves,  become  the  germs  of  our  opin- 
ions and  of  our  rules  of  conduct.  All  the  objects  which 
surround  us  are  then,  in  reality,  so  many  talismans 
whence  good  and  evil  influences  are  emitted,  and  it 
is  for  us  to  choose  them  wisely,  so  as  to  create  a  healthy 
atmosphere  for  our  minds. 

Feeling  convinced  of  this  truth,  I  set  about  making 
a  survey  of  my  attic. 

The  first  object  on  which  my  eyes  rest  is  an  old  map 
of  the  history  of  the  principal  monastery  in  my  native 
province.  I  had  unrolled  it  with  much  satisfaction, 
and  placed  it  on  the  most  conspicuous  part  of  the  wall. 
Why  had  I  given  it  this  place?  Ought  this  sheet  of  old 
worm-eaten  parchment  to  be  of  so  much  value  to  me, 
who  am  neither  an  antiquary  nor  a  scholar  ?  Is  not  its 
real  importance  in  my  sight  that  one  of  the  abbots  who 
founded  it  bore  my  name,  and  that  I  shall,  perchance, 

[149] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

be  able  to  make  myself  a  genealogical  tree  of  it  for  the 
edification  of  my  visitors?  While  writing  this,  I  feel 
my  own  blushes.  Come,  down  with  the  map!  let  us 
banish  it  into  my  deepest  drawer. 

As  I  passed  my  glass,  I  perceived  several  visiting 
cards  complacently  displayed  in  the  frame.  By  what 
chance  is  it  that  there  are  only  names  that  make  a  show 
among  them  ?  Here  is  a  Polish  count — a  retired  colonel 
— the  deputy  of  my  department.  Quick,  quick,  into  the 
fire  with  these  proofs  of  vanity!  and  let  us  put  this  card 
in  the  handwriting  of  our  office-boy,  this  direction  for 
cheap  dinners,  and  the  receipt  of  the  broker  where  I 
bought  my  last  armchair,  in  their  place.  These  indi- 
cations of  my  poverty  will  serve,  as  Montaigne  says, 
mater  ma  superbe,  and  will  always  make  me  recollect 
the  modesty  in  which  the  dignity  of  the  lowly  con- 
sists. 

I  have  stopped  before  the  prints  hanging  upon  the 
wall.  This  large  and  smiling  Pomona,  seated  on 
sheaves  of  corn,  and  whose  basket  is  overflowing  with 
fruit,  only  produces  thoughts  of  joy  and  plenty ;  I  was 
looking  at  her  the  other  day,  when  I  fell  asleep  denying 
such  a  thing  as  misery.  Let  us  give  her  as  companion 
this  picture  of  Winter,  in  which  everything  tells  of 
sorrow  and  suffering:  one  picture  will  modify  the 
other. 

And  this  Happy  Family  of  Greuze's!  What  joy  in 
the  children's  eyes!  What  sweet  repose  in  the  young 
woman's  face!  What  religious  feeling  in  the  grand- 
father's countenance!  May  God  preserve  their  happi- 
ness to  them!  but  let  us  hang  by  its  side  the  picture  of 

[150] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

this  mother,  who  weeps  over  an  empty  cradle.  Human 
life  has  two  faces,  both  of  which  we  must  dare  to  con- 
template in  their  turn. 

Let  me  hide,  too,  these  ridiculous  monsters  which  or- 
nament my  chimneypiece.  Plato  has  said  that  ''the 
beautiful  is  nothing  else  than  the  visible  form  of  the 
good."  If  it  is  so,  the  ugly  should  be  the  visible  form 
of  the  evil,  and,  by  constantly  beholding  it,  the  mind 
insensibly  deteriorates. 

But  above  all,  in  order  to  cherish  the  feelings  of  kind- 
ness and  pity,  let  me  hang  at  the  foot  of  my  bed 
this  affecting  picture  of  the  Last  Sleep!  Never  have 
I  been  able  to  look  at  it  without  feeling  my  heart 
touched. 

An  old  woman,  clothed  in  rags,  is  lying  by  a  road- 
side; her  stick  is  at  her  feet,  and  her  head  rests  upon 
a  stone ;  she  has  fallen  asleep ;  her  hands  are  clasped ; 
murmuring  a  prayer  of  her  childhood,  she  sleeps  her 
last  sleep,  she  dreams  her  last  dream ! 

She  sees  herself,  again  a  strong  and  happy  child, 
keeping  the  sheep  on  the  common,  gathering  the  ber- 
ries from  the  hedges,  singing,  curtsying  to  passers-by, 
and  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  when  the  first  star  ap- 
pears in  the  heavens!  Happy  time,  filled  with  fragrance 
and  sunshine!  She  wants  nothing  yet,  for  she  is  igno- 
rant of  what  there  is  to  wish  for. 

But  see  her  grown  up;  the  time  is  come  for  working 
bravely:  she  must  cut  the  corn,  thresh  the  wheat,  carry 
the  bundles  of  flowering  clover  or  branches  of  withered 
leaves  to  the  farm.  If  her  toil  is  hard,  hope  shines  like 
a  sun  over  everything  and  it  wipes  the  drops  of  sweat 

[151] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

away.  The  growing  girl  already  sees  that  life  is  a  task, 
but  she  still  sings  as  she  fulfills  it. 

By-and-bye  the  burden  becomes  heavier;  she  is  a 
wife,  she  is  a  mother!  She  must  economize  the  bread 
of  to-day,  have  her  eye  upon  the  morrow,  take  care  of 
the  sick,  and  sustain  the  feeble;  she  must  act,  in  short, 
that  part  of  an  earthly  Providence,  so  easy  when  God 
gives  us  his  aid,  so  hard  when  he  forsakes  us.  She 
is  still  strong,  but  she  is  anxious;  she  sings  no 
longer! 

Yet  a  few  years,  and  all  is  overcast.  The  husband's 
health  is  broken;  his  wife  sees  him  pine  away  by  the 
now  fireless  hearth;  cold  and  hunger  finish  what  sick- 
ness had  begun;  he  dies,  and  his  widow  sits  on  the 
ground  by  the  coffin  provided  by  the  charity  of  others, 
pressing  her  two  half-naked  little  ones  in  her  arms. 
She  dreads  the  future,  she  weeps,  and  she  droops  her 
head. 

At  last  the  future  has  come;  the  children  are  grown 
up,  but  they  are  no  longer  with  her.  Her  son  is  fighting 
under  his  country's  flag,  and  his  sister  is  gone.  Both 
have  been  lost  to  her  for  a  long  time — perhaps  for  ever; 
and  the  strong  girl,  the  brave  wife,  the  courageous 
mother,  is  henceforth  only  a  poor  old  beggar-woman, 
without  a  family,  and  without  a  home!  She  weeps  no 
more,  sorrow  has  subdued  her;  she  surrenders,  and 
waits  for  death. 

Death,  that  faithful  friend  of  the  wretched,  is  come: 
not  hideous  and  with  mockery,  as  superstition  repre- 
sents, but  beautiful,  smiling,  and  crowned  with  stars! 
The  gentle  phantom  stoops  to  the  beggar;  its  pale  lips 

[152] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

murmur  a  few  airy  words,  which  announce  to  her  the 
end  of  her  labors;  a  peaceful  joy  comes  over  the  aged 
beggar-woman,  and,  leaning  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
great  Deliverer,  she  has  passed  unconsciously  from  her 
last  earthly  sleep  to  her  eternal  rest. 

Lie  there,  thou  poor  way- wearied  woman!  The 
leaves  will  serve  thee  for  a  winding-sheet.  Night  will 
shed  her  tears  of  dew  over  thee,  and  the  birds  will  sing 
sweetly  by  thy  remains.  Thy  visit  here  below  will  not 
have  left  more  trace  than  their  flight  through  the  air; 
thy  name  is  already  forgotten,  and  the  only  legacy  thou 
hast  to  leave  is  the  hawthorn  stick  lying  forgotten  at 
thy  feet! 

Well !  some  one  will  take  it  up — some  soldier  of  that 
great  human  host  which  is  scattered  abroad  by  misery 
or  by  vice;  for  thou  art  not  an  exception,  thou  art  an 
instance;  and  under  the  same  sun  which  shines  so 
pleasantly  upon  all,  in  the  midst  of  these  flowering 
vineyards,  this  ripe  corn,  and  these  wealthy  cities,  en- 
tire generations  suffer,  succeed  each  other,  and  still  be- 
queath to  each  the  beggar's  stick ! 

The  sight  of  this  sad  picture  shall  make  me  more 
grateful  for  what  God  has  given  me,  and  more  com- 
passionate for  those  whom  he  has  treated  with  less  in- 
dulgence; it  shall  be  a  lesson  and  a  subject  for  reflec- 
tion for  me. 

Ah!  if  we  would  watch  for  everything  that  might 
improve  and  instruct  us;  if  the  arrangements  of  our 
daily  life  were  so  disposed  as  to  be  a  constant  school  for 
our  minds!  but  oftenest  we  take  no  heed  of  them.  Man 
is  an  eternal  mystery  to  himself;   his  own  person  is  a 

[153] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

house  into  which  he  never  enters,  and  of  which  he 
studies  the  outside  alone.  Each  of  us  need  have  con- 
tinually before  him  the  famous  inscription  which  once 
instructed  Socrates,  and  which  was  engraved  on  the 
walls  of  Delphi  by  an  unknown  hand : 

KNOW   THYSELF. 


[154] 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  END   OF   THE  YEAR 

December  2>oth,  P.M. 

WAS  in  bed,  and  hardly  recovered 
from  the  dehrious  fever  which  had 
kept  me  for  so  long  between  life  and 
death.  My  weakened  brain  was  mak- 
ing efforts  to  recover  its  activity; 
my  thoughts,  like  rays  of  light  strug- 
gling through  the  clouds,  were  still 
confused  and  imperfect;  at  times  I 
felt  a  return  of  the  dizziness  which  made  a  chaos  of  all 
my  ideas,  and  I  floated,  so  to  speak,  between  alternate 
fits  of  mental  wandering  and  consciousness. 

Sometimes  everything  seemed  plain  to  me,  like  the 
prospect  which,  from  the  top  of  some  high  mountain, 
opens  before  us  in  clear  weather.  We  distinguish  water, 
woods,  villages,  cattle,  even  the  cottage  perched  on  the 
edge  of  the  ravine ;  then  suddenly  there  comes  a  gust  of 
wind  laden  with  mist,  and  all  is  confused  and  indistinct. 
Thus,  yielding  to  the  oscillations  of  a  half-recovered 
reason,  I  allowed  my  mind  to  follow  its  various  impulses 
without  troubling  myself  to  separate  the  real  from  the 
imaginary;  I  glided  softly  from  one  to  the  other,  and 
my  dreams  and  waking  thoughts  succeeded  closely  upon 
one  another. 

[155] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

Now,  while  my  mind  is  wandering  in  this  unsettled 
state,  see,  underneath  the  clock  which  measures  the 
hours  with  its  loud  ticking,  a  female  figure  appears 
before  me ! 

At  first  sight  I  saw  enough  to  satisfy  me  that  she  was 
not  a  daughter  of  Eve.  In  her  eye  was  the  last  flash  of 
an  expiring  star,  and  her  face  had  the  pallor  of  an  he- 
roic death-struggle.  She  was  dressed  in  a  drapery  of  a 
thousand  changing  colors  of  the  brightest  and  the  most 
sombre  hues,  and  held  a  withered  garland  in  her  hand. 

After  having  contemplated  her  for  some  moments,  I 
asked  her  name,  and  what  brought  her  into  my  attic. 
Her  eyes,  which  were  following  the  movements  of  the 
clock,  turned  toward  me,  and  she  replied: 

"You  see  in  me  the  year  which  is  just  drawing  to  its 
end;  I  come  to  receive  your  thanks  and  your  farewell." 

I  raised  myself  on  my  elbow  in  surprise,  which  soon 
gave  place  to  bitter  resentment. 

"Ah!  you  want  thanks,"  cried  I;  "but  first  let  me 
know  w^hat  for? 

"When  I  welcomed  your  coming,  I  was  still  young 
and  vigorous:  you  have  taken  from  me  each  day  some 
little  of  my  strength,  and  you  have  ended  by  inflicting 
an  illness  upon  me;  already,  thanks  to  you,  my  blood 
is  less  warm,  my  muscles  less  firm,  and  my  feet  less  agile 
than  before!  You  have  planted  the  germs  of  infirmity 
in  my  bosom;  there,  where  the  summer  flowers  of  life 
were  growing,  you  have  wickedly  sown  the  nettles  of 
old  age! 

"And,  as  if  it  were  not  enough  to  weaken  my  body, 
you  have  also  diminished  the  powers  of  my  soul ;  you 

[156] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

have  extinguished  her  enthusiasm ;  she  is  become  more 
sluggish  and  more  timid.  Formerly  her  eyes  took  in 
the  whole  of  mankind  in  their  generous  survey;  but 
you  have  made  her  nearsighted,  and  now  she  hardly 
sees  beyond  herself ! 

"That  is  what  you  have  done  for  my  spiritual  being: 
then  as  to  my  outward  existence,  see  to  what  grief,  ne- 
glect, and  misery  you  have  reduced  it! 

"For  the  many  days  that  the  fever  has  kept  me 
chained  to  this  bed,  who  has  taken  care  of  this  home 
in  which  I  placed  all  my  joy?  Shall  I  not  find  my 
closets  empty,  my  bookcase  stripped,  all  my  poor 
treasures  lost  through  negligence  or  dishonesty  ?  Where 
are  the  plants  I  cultivated,  the  birds  I  fed?  All  are 
gone!  my  attic  is  despoiled,  silent  and  solitary! 

"As  it  is  only  for  the  last  few  moments  that  I  have 
returned  to  a  consciousness  of  what  surrounds  me,  I 
am  even  ignorant  who  has  nursed  me  during  my  long 
illness!  Doubtless  some  hireling,  who  will  leave  when 
all  my  means  of  recompense  are  exhausted ! 

"And  what  will  my  masters,  for  whom  I  am  bound 
to  work,  have  said  to  my  absence  ?  At  this  time  of  the 
year,  when  business  is  most  pressing,  can  they  have 
done  without  me,  will  they  even  have  tried  to  do  so? 
Perhaps  I  am  already  superseded  in  the  humble  situa- 
tion by  which  I  earned  my  daily  bread !  And  it  is  thou 
— thou  alone,  wicked  daughter  of  Time — who  hast 
brought  all  these  misfortunes  upon  me:  strength, 
health,  comfort,  work — thou  hast  taken  all  from  me.  I 
have  only  received  outrage  and  loss  from  thee,  and  yet 
thou  darest  to  claim  my  gratitude ! 

[157] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

"Ah!  die  then,  since  thy  day  is  come;  but  die  de- 
spised and  cursed;  and  may  I  write  on  thy  tomb  the 
epitaph  the  Arabian  poet  inscribed  upon  that  of  a  king: 

'^'Rejoice,  thou  passer-by:  lie  whom  we  have  buried 
here  cannot  live  again. ^''^ 

I  was  wakened  by  a  hand  taking  mine ;  and  opening 
my  eyes,  I  recognized  the  doctor. 

After  having  felt  my  pulse,  he  nodded  his  head,  sat 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  looked  at  me,  rubbing 
his  nose  with  his  snuffbox.  I  have  since  learned  that 
this  was  a  sign  of  satisfaction  with  the  doctor. 

"Well!  so  we  wanted  old  snub-nose  to  carry  us 
off?"  said  M.  Lambert,  in  his  half -joking,  half-scold- 
ing way.  "What  the  deuce  of  a  hurry  we  were  in! 
It  was  necessary  to  hold  you  back  with  both  arms  at 
least!" 

"Then  you  had  given  me  up,  doctor?"  asked  I, 
rather  alarmed. 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  the  old  physician.  "We  can't 
give  up  what  we  have  not  got;  and  I  make  it  a  rule 
never  to  have  any  hope.  We  are  but  instruments  in  the 
hands  of  Providence,  and  each  of  us  should  say,  with 
Ambroise  Pare:  'I  tend  him,  God  cures  him!'" 

"May  He  be  blessed  then,  as  well  as  you,"  cried  I; 
"and  may  my  health  come  back  with  the  new  year!" 

M.  Lambert  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Begin  by  asking  yourself  for  it,"  resumed  he, 
bluntly.  "God  has  given  it  you,  and  it  is  your  own 
sense,  and  not  chance,  that  must  keep  it  for  you.  One 
would  think,  to  hear  people  talk,  that  sickness  comes 

[158] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

upon  us  like  the  rain  or  the  sunshine,  without  one 
hvaing  a  word  to  say  in  the  matter.  Before  we  com- 
plain of  being  ill  we  should  prove  that  we  deserve  to 
beweU." 

I  was  about  to  smile,  but  the  doctor  looked  angry. 

"Ah!  you  think  that  I  am  joking,"  resumed  he, 
raising  his  voice;  ''but  tell  me,  then,  which  of  us  gives 
his  health  the  same  attention  that  he  gives  to  his 
business?  Do  you  economize  your  strength  as  you 
economize  your  money?  Do  you  avoid  excess  and 
imprudence  in  the  one  case  with  the  same  care  as  ex- 
travagance or  foolish  speculations  in  the  other?  Do 
you  keep  as  regular  accounts  of  your  mode  of  living  as 
you  do  of  your  income  ?  Do  you  consider  every  even- 
ing what  has  been  wholesome  or  unwholesome  for  you, 
with  the  same  care  that  you  bring  to  the  examination  of 
your  expenditure  ?  You  may  smile ;  but  have  you  not 
brought  this  illness  on  yourself  by  a  thousand  indis- 
cretions? " 

I  began  to  protest  against  this,  and  asked  him  to 
point  out  these  indiscretions.  The  old  doctor  spread 
out  his  fingers,  and  began  to  reckon  upon  them  one  by 
one. 

"Pnwo,"  cried  he,  "want  of  exercise.  You  live  here 
like  a  mouse  in  a  cheese,  without  air,  motion,  or  change. 
Consequently,  the  blood  circulates  badly,  the  fluids 
thicken,  the  muscles,  being  inactive,  do  not  claim  their 
share  of  nutrition,  the  stomach  flags,  and  the  brain 
grows  weary. 

"Secundo.  Irregular  food.  Caprice  is  your  cook; 
your  stomach  a  slave  who  must  accept  what  you  give 

[159] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

it,  but  who  presently  takes  a  sullen  revenge,  like  all 
slaves. 

*'  Tertio.  Sitting  up  late.  Instead  of  using  the  night 
for  sleep,  you  spend  it  in  reading;  your  bedstead  is  a 
bookcase,  your  pillows  a  desk!  At  the  time  when  the 
wearied  brain  asks  for  rest,  you  lead  it  through  these 
nocturnal  orgies,  and  you  are  surprised  to  find  it  the 
worse  for  them  the  next  day. 

^^  Quarto.  Luxurious  habits.  Shut  up  in  your  attic, 
you  insensibly  surround  yourself  with  a  thousand  effem- 
inate indulgences.  You  must  have  list  for  your  door, 
a  blind  for  your  window,  a  carpet  for  your  feet,  an  easy- 
chair  stuffed  with  wool  for  your  back,  your  fire  lit  at  the 
first  sign  of  cold,  and  a  shade  to  your  lamp;  and 
thanks  to  all  these  precautions,  the  least  draught  makes 
you  catch  cold,  common  chairs  give  you  no  rest,  and 
you  must  wear  spectacles  to  support  the  light  of  day. 
You  have  thought  you  were  acquiring  comforts,  and 
you  have  only  contracted  infirmities. 

"Quinto " 

"Ah!  enough,  enough,  doctor!"  cried  I.  "Pray,  do 
not  carry  your  examination  farther;  do  not  attach  a 
sense  of  remorse  to  each  of  my  pleasures." 

The  old  doctor  rubbed  his  nose  with  his  snuffbox. 

"You  see,"  said  he,  more  gently,  and  rising  at  the 
same  time,  "you  would  escape  from  the  truth.  You 
shrink  from  inquiry — a  proof  that  you  are  guilty.  Ha- 
bemus  confitentem  reum!  But  at  least,  my  friend,  do 
not  go  on  laying  the  blame  on  Time,  like  an  old 
woman." 

Thereupon  he  again  felt  my  pulse,  and  took  his  leave, 
[i6o] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

declaring  that  his  function  was  at  an  end,  and  that  the 
rest  depended  upon  myself. 

When  the  doctor  was  gone,  I  set  about  reflecting  upon 
what  he  had  said. 

Although  his  words  were  too  sweeping,  they  were  not 
the  less  true  in  the  main.  How  often  we  accuse  chance 
of  an  illness,  the  origin  of  which  we  should  seek  in  our- 
selves! Perhaps  it  would  have  been  wiser  to  let  him 
finish  the  examination  he  had  begun. 

But  is  there  not  another  of  more  importance — that 
which  concerns  the  health  of  the  soul  ?  Am  I  so  sure  of 
having  neglected  no  means  of  preserving  that  during 
the  year  which  is  now  ending?  Have  I,  as  one  of  God's 
soldiers  upon  earth,  kept  my  courage  and  my  arms  effi- 
cient? Shall  I  be  ready  for  the  great  review  of  souls 
which  must  pass  before  Him  who  is  in  the  dark  valley 
of  Jehoshaphat? 

Barest  thou  examine  thyself,  O  my  soul!  and  see 
how  often  thou  hast  erred  ? 

First,  thou  hast  erred  through  pride !  for  I  have  not 
duly  valued  the  lowly.  I  have  drunk  too  deeply  of  the 
intoxicating  wines  of  genius,  and  have  found  no  relish 
in  pure  water.  I  have  disdained  those  words  which  had 
no  other  beauty  than  their  sincerity;  I  have  ceased  to 
love  men  solely  because  they  are  men — I  have  loved 
them  for  their  endowments;  I  have  contracted  the 
world  within  the  narrow  compass  of  a  pantheon,  and 
my  sympathy  has  been  awakened  by  admiration  only. 
The  vulgar  crowd,  which  I  ought  to  have  followed 
with  a  friendly  eye  because  it  is  composed  of  my  broth- 
ers in  hope  or  grief,  I  have  let  pass  by  me  with  as  much 
II  I161] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

indifference  as  if  it  were  a  flock  of  sheep.  I  am  indig- 
nant with  him  who  rolls  in  riches  and  despises  the  man 
poor  in  worldly  wealth;  and  yet,  vain  of  my  trifling 
knowledge,  I  despise  him  who  is  poor  in  mind — I  scorn 
the  poverty  of  intellect  as  others  do  that  of  dress ;  I  take 
credit  for  a  gift  which  I  did  not  bestow  on  myself,  and 
turn  the  favor  of  fortune  into  a  weapon  with  which  to 
attack  others. 

Ah!  if,  in  the  worst  days  of  revolutions,  ignorance 
has  revolted  and  raised  a  cry  of  hatred  against  genius, 
the  fault  is  not  alone  in  the  envious  malice  of  ignorance, 
but  comes  in  part,  too,  from  the  contemptuous  pride  of 
knowledge. 

Alas!  I  have  too  completely  forgotten  the  fable  of 
the  two  sons  of  the  magician  of  Bagdad. 

One  of  them,  struck  by  an  irrevocable  decree  of  des- 
tiny, was  born  blind,  while  the  other  enjoyed  all  the  de- 
lights of  sight.  The  latter,  proud  of  his  own  advan- 
tages, laughed  at  his  brother's  blindness,  and  disdained 
him  as  a  companion.  One  morning  the  blind  boy 
wished  to  go  out  with  him. 

"To  what  purpose,"  said  he,  "since  the  gods  have 
put  nothing  in  common  between  us?  For  me  creation 
is  a  stage,  where  a  thousand  charming  scenes  and  won- 
derful actors  appear  in  succession ;  for  you  it  is  only  an 
obscure  abyss,  at  the  bottom  of  which  you  hear  the  con- 
fused murmur  of  an  invisible  world.  Continue  then 
alone  in  your  darkness,  and  leave  the  pleasures  of  light 
to  those  upon  whom  the  day-star  shines." 

With  these  words  he  went  away,  and  his  brother,  left 
alone,  began  to  cry  bitterly.     His  father,  who  heard 

[162] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

him,  immediately  ran  to  him,  and  tried  to  console  him 
by  promising  to  give  him  whatever  he  desired. 

"Can  you  give  me  sight?"  asked  the  child. 

"Fate  does  not  permit  it,"  said  the  magician. 

"Then,"  cried  the  blind  boy,  eagerly,  "I  ask  you  to 
put  out  the  sun!" 

Who  knows  whether  my  pride  has  not  provoked  the 
same  wish  on  the  part  of  some  one  of  my  brothers  who 
does  not  see? 

But  how  much  oftener  have  I  erred  through  levity 
and  want  of  thought!  How  many  resolutions  have  I 
taken  at  random!  how  many  judgments  have  I  pro- 
nounced for  the  sake  of  a  witticism!  how  many  mis- 
chiefs have  I  not  done  without  any  sense  of  my  respon- 
sibility !  The  greater  part  of  men  harm  one  another  for 
the  sake  of  doing  something.  We  laugh  at  the  honor  of 
one,  and  compromise  the  reputation  of  another,  like 
an  idle  man  who  saunters  along  a  hedgerow,  breaking 
the  young  branches  and  destroying  the  most  beautiful 
flowers. 

And,  nevertheless,  it  is  by  this  very  thoughtlessness 
that  the  fame  of  some  men  is  created.  It  rises  grad- 
ually, like  one  of  those  mysterious  mounds  in  barbar- 
ous countries,  to  which  a  stone  is  added  by  every  passer- 
by; each  one  brings  something  at  random,  and  adds  it 
as  he  passes,  without  being  able  himself  to  see  whether 
he  is  raising  a  pedestal  or  a  gibbet.  Who  will  dare  look 
behind  him,  to  see  his  rash  judgments  held  up  there  to 
view? 

Some  time  ago  I  was  walking  along  the  edge  of  the 
green    mound   on  which    the   Montmartre    telegraph 

[163] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

stands.  Below  me,  along  one  of  the  zigzag  paths  which 
wind  up  the  hill,  a  man  and  a  girl  were  coming  up,  and 
arrested  my  attention.  The  man  wore  a  shaggy  coat, 
which  gave  him  some  resemblance  to  a  wild  beast ;  and 
he  held  a  thick  stick  in  his  hand,  with  which  he  de- 
scribed various  strange  figures  in  the  air.  He  spoke 
very  loud,  and  in  a  voice  which  seemed  to  me  convulsed 
with  passion.  He  raised  his  eyes  every  now  and  then 
with  an  expression  of  savage  harshness,  and  it  appeared 
to  me  that  he  was  reproaching  and  threatening  the  girl, 
and  that  she  was  listening  to  him  with  a  submissiveness 
which  touched  my  heart.  Two  or  three  times  she  ven- 
tured a  few  words,  doubtless  in  the  attempt  to  justify 
herself;  but  the  man  in  the  greatcoat  began  again  im- 
mediately with  his  loud  and  angry  voice,  his  savage 
looks,  and  his  threatening  evolutions  in  the  air.  I  fol- 
lowed him  with  my  eyes,  vainly  endeavoring  to  catch 
a  word  as  he  passed,  until  he  disappeared  behind  the 
hill. 

I  had  evidently  just  seen  one  of  those  domestic 
tyrants  whose  sullen  tempers  are  excited  by  the  pa- 
tience of  their  victims,  and  who,  though  they  have  the 
power  to  become  the  beneficent  gods  of  a  family,  choose 
rather  to  be  their  tormentors. 

I  cursed  the  unknown  savage  in  my  heart,  and  I  felt 
indignant  that  these  crimes  against  the  sacred  peace  of 
home  could  not  be  punished  as  they  deserve,  when  I 
heard  his  voice  approaching  nearer.  He  had  turned  the 
path,  and  soon  appeared  before  me  at  the  top  of  the 
slope. 

The  first  glance,  and  his  first  words,  explained 
[164] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

everything  to  me :  in  place  of  what  I  had  taken  for  the 
furious  tones  and  terrible  looks  of  an  angry  man,  and 
the  attitude  of  a  frightened  victim,  I  had  before  me 
only  an  honest  citizen,  who  squinted  and  stuttered,  but 
who  was  explaining  the  management  of  silkworms  to 
his  attentive  daughter. 

I  turned  homeward,  smiling  at  my  mistake;  but  be- 
fore I  reached  my  faubourg  I  saw  a  crowd  running,  I 
heard  calls  for  help,  and  every  finger  pointed  in  the 
same  direction  to  a  distant  column  of  flame.  A  manu- 
factory had  taken  fire,  and  everybody  was  rushing  for- 
ward to  assist  in  extinguishing  it. 

I  hesitated.  Night  was  coming  on;  I  felt  tired;  a 
favorite  book  was  awaiting  me;  I  thought  there  would 
be  no  want  of  help,  and  I  went  on  my  way. 

Just  before  I  had  erred  from  want  of  consideration; 
now  it  was  from  selfishness  and  cowardice. 

But  what!  have  I  not  on  a  thousand  other  occasions 
forgotten  the  duties  which  bind  us  to  our  fellowmen? 
Is  this  the  first  time  I  have  avoided  paying  society  what 
I  owe  it?  Have  I  not  always  behaved  to  my  compan- 
ions with  injustice,  and  like  the  lion?  Have  I  not 
claimed  successively  every  share  ?  If  any  one  is  so  ill- 
advised  as  to  ask  me  to  return  some  little  portion,  I  get 
provoked,  I  am  angry,  I  try  to  escape  from  it  by  every 
means.  How  many  times,  when  I  have  perceived  a 
beggar  sitting  huddled  up  at  the  end  of  the  street,  have  I 
not  gone  out  of  my  way,  for  fear  that  compassion  would 
impoverish  me  by  forcing  me  to  be  charitable!  How 
often  have  I  doubted  the  misfortunes  of  others,  that  I 
might   with  justice   harden  my  heart   against    them! 

[  165  ] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

With  what  satisfaction  have  I  sometimes  verified  the 
vices  of  the  poor  man,  in  order  to  show  that  his  misery 
is  the  punishment  he  deserves! 

Oh!  let  us  not  go  farther — let  us  not  go  farther!  I 
interrupted  the  doctor's  examination,  but  how  much 
sadder  is  this  one!  We  pity  the  diseases  of  the  body; 
we  shudder  at  those  of  the  soul. 

I  was  happily  disturbed  in  my  reverie  by  my  neigh- 
bor, the  old  soldier. 

Now  I  think  of  it,  I  seem  always  to  have  seen,  during 
my  fever,  the  figure  of  this  good  old  man,  sometimes 
leaning  against  my  bed,  and  sometimes  sitting  at  his 
table,  surrounded  by  his  sheets  of  pasteboard. 

He  has  just  come  in  with  his  glue-pot,  his  quire  of 
green  paper,  and  his  great  scissors.  I  called  him  by  his 
name;  he  uttered  a  joyful  exclamation,  and  came  near 
me. 

"Well!  so  the  bullet  is  found  again!"  cried  he,  tak- 
ing my  two  hands  into  the  maimed  one  which  was  left 
him;  "it  has  not  been  without  trouble,  I  can  tell  you; 
the  campaign  has  been  long  enough  to  win  two  clasps 
in.  I  have  seen  no  few  fellows  with  the  fever  batter 
windmills  during  my  hospital  days:  at  Leipsic,  I  had  a 
neighbor  who  fancied  a  chimney  was  on  fire  in  his  stom- 
ach, and  who  was  always  calling  for  the  fire-engines; 
but  the  third  day  it  all  went  out  of  itself.  But  with  you 
it  has  lasted  twenty-eight  days — as  long  as  one  of  the 
Little  Corporal's  campaigns." 

"I  am  not  mistaken  then;  you  were  near  me?" 

"Well!  I  had  only  to  cross  the  passage.  This  left 
hand  has  not  made  you  a  bad  nurse  for  want  of  the 

[i66] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

right;  but,  bah!  you  did  not  know  what  hand  gave  you 
drink,  and  it  did  not  prevent  that  beggar  of  a  fever 
from  being  drowned — for  all  the  world  like  Poniatowski 
in  the  Elster." 

The  old  soldier  began  to  laugh,  and  I,  feehng  too 
much  affected  to  speak,  pressed  his  hand  against  my 
breast.  He  saw  my  emotion,  and  hastened  to  put  an 
end  to  it. 

"By-the-bye,  you  know  that  from  to-day  you  have  a 
right  to  draw  your  rations  again,"  resumed  he  gayly; 
"four  meals,  like  the  German  meinherrs — nothing 
more!    The  doctor  is  your  house  steward." 

"We  must  find  the  cook,  too,"  replied  I,  with  a 
smile. 

"She  is  found,"  said  the  veteran. 

"Who  is  she?" 

"Genevieve." 

"The  fruit-woman?" 

"While  I  am  talking  she  is  cooking  for  you,  neigh- 
bor; and  do  not  fear  her  sparing  either  butter  or  trou- 
ble. As  long  as  life  and  death  were  fighting  for  you, 
the  honest  woman  passed  her  time  in  going  up  and 
down  stairs  to  learn  which  way  the  battle  went.  And, 
stay,  I  am  sure  this  is  she." 

In  fact  we  heard  steps  in  the  passage,  and  he  went 
to  open  the  door. 

"Oh,  well!"  continued  he,  "it  is  Mother  Millot,  our 
portress,  another  of  your  good  friends,  neighbor,  and 
whose  poultices  I  recommend  to  you.  Come  in,  Mother 
Millot — come  in;  we  are  quite  bonny  boys  this  morning, 
and  ready  to  step  a  minuet  if  we  had  our  dancing-shoes." 

[167] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

The  portress  came  in,  quite  delighted.  She  brought 
my  linen,  washed  and  mended  by  herself,  with  a  little 
bottle  of  Spanish  wine,  the  gift  of  her  sailor  son,  and 
kept  for  great  occasions.  I  would  have  thanked  her, 
but  the  good  woman  imposed  silence  upon  me,  under 
the  pretext  that  the  doctor  had  forbidden  me  to  speak. 
I  saw  her  arrange  everything  in  my  drawers,  the  neat 
appearance  of  which  struck  me;  an  attentive  hand  had 
evidently  been  there,  and  day  by  day  put  straight  the 
unavoidable  disorder  consequent  on  sickness. 

As  she  finished,  Genevieve  arrived  with  my  dinner; 
she  was  followed  by  Mother  Denis,  the  milkwoman 
over  the  way,  who  had  learned,  at  the  same  time,  the 
danger  I  had  been  in,  and  that  I  was  now  beginning  to 
be  convalescent.  The  good  Savoyard  brought  me  a 
newlaid  egg,  which  she  herself  wished  to  see  me  eat. 

It  was  necessary  to  relate  minutely  all  my  illness  to 
her.  At  every  detail  she  uttered  loud  exclamations; 
then,  when  the  portress  warned  her  to  be  less  noisy, 
she  excused  herself  in  a  whisper.  They  made  a  circle 
around  me  to  see  me  eat  my  dinner;  each  mouthful  I 
took  was  accompanied  by  their  expressions  of  satisfac- 
tion and  thankfulness.  Never  had  the  King  of  France, 
when  he  dined  in  public,  excited  such  admiration  among 
the  spectators. 

As  they  were  taking  the  dinner  away,  my  colleague, 
the  old  cashier,  entered  in  his  turn. 

I  could  not  prevent  my  heart  beating  as  I  recognized 
him.  How  would  the  heads  of  the  firm  look  upon  my 
absence,  and  what  did  he  come  to  tell  me  ? 

I  waited  with  inexpressible  anxiety  for  him  to  speak ; 
[i68] 


AN  "ATTIC"  PHILOSOPHER 

but  he  sat  down  by  me,  took  my  hand,  and  began  re- 
joicing over  my  recovery,  without  saying  a  word  about 
our  masters.  I  could  not  endure  this  uncertainty  any 
longer. 

"And  the  Messieurs  Durmcr,"  asked  I,  hesitatingly, 
"how  have  they  taken— the  interruption  to  my  work?" 

"There  has  been  no  interruption,"  replied  the  old 
clerk,  quietly. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Each  one  m  the  office  took  a  share  of  your  duty; 
all  has  gone  on  as  usual,  and  the  Messieurs  Durmer 
have  perceived  no  difference." 

This  was  too  much.  After  so  many  instances  of  affec- 
tion, this  filled  up  the  measure.  I  could  not  restrain 
my  tears. 

Thus  the  few  services  I  had  been  able  to  do  for 
others  had  been  acknowledged  by  them  a  hundred- 
fold! I  had  sown  a  little  seed,  and  every  grain  had 
fallen  on  good  ground,  and  brought  forth  a  whole 
sheaf.  Ah!  this  completes  the  lesson  the  doctor  gave 
me.  If  it  is  true  that  the  diseases,  whether  of  the  mind 
or  body,  are  the  fruit  of  our  follies  and  our  vices,  sym- 
pathy and  affection  arc  also  the  rewards  of  our  having 
done  our  duty.  Every  one  of  us,  with  God's  help,  and 
within  the  narrow  limits  of  human  capability,  himself 
makes  his  own  disposition,  character,  and  permanent 
condition. 


Everybody  is  gone;   the  old  soldier  has  brought  me 
back  my  flowers  and  my  birds,  and  they  are  my  only 

[169] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

companions.  The  setting  sun  reddens  my  half-closed 
curtains  with  its  last  rays.  My  brain  is  clear,  and  my 
heart  lighter.  A  thin  mist  floats  before  my  eyes,  and  I 
feel  myself  in  that  happy  state  which  precedes  a  re- 
freshing sleep. 

Yonder,  opposite  the  bed,  the  pale  goddess  in  her 
drapery  of  a  thousand  changing  colors,  and  with  her 
withered  garland,  again  appears  before  me;  but  this 
time  I  hold  out  my  hand  to  her  with  a  grateful  smile. 

''Adieu,  beloved  year!  whom  I  but  now  unjustly 
accused.  That  which  I  have  suffered  must  not  be  laid  to 
thee ;  for  thou  wast  but  a  tract  through  which  God  had 
marked  out  my  road — a  ground  where  I  had  reaped  the 
harvest  I  had  sown.  I  will  love  thee,  thou  wayside 
shelter,  for  those  hours  of  happiness  thou  hast  seen  me 
enjoy;  I  will  love  thee  even  for  the  suffering  thou  hast 
seen  me  endure.  Neither  happiness  nor  suffering  came 
from  thee ;  but  thou  hast  been  the  scene  for  them.  De- 
scend again  then,  in  peace,  into  eternity,  and  be  blest, 
thou  who  hast  left  me  experience  in  the  place  of  youth, 
sweet  memories  instead  of  past  time,  and  gratitude  as 
payment  for  good  offices." 


[170] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 


A  JOUENEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

CHAPTER  I 

A  CHILD   OF   THE   FAUBOURGS 

'S  far  back  as  I  can  remember  I  recall 
living  with  my  father  and  mother  in  a 
house  of  two  stories  in  the  Rue  de  Cha- 
teau-Landon,  near  the  Barriere  des 
Vertus. 

On  the  ground-floor  lodged,  all 
alone,  an  old-clothes  merchant,  who 
followed  his  calling  during  the  day,  re- 
turned in  the  evening,  never  spoke  to  anyone,  made  no 
noise,  and  lived  as  quietly  as  a  dead  man  in  his  grave. 

Above  the  clothes- seller  dwelt  Mother  Cauville,  an 
excellent  woman,  who  was  a  poor  widow  with  three 
children.  While  her  husband  lived  all  were  well  sup- 
ported, but  at  his  death  "  her  legs  lacked  to  carry  them," 
as  the  good  woman  said,  and  it  was  necessary  to  go  upon 
her  courage.  The  brave  woman,  harnessed  to  a  hand- 
cart, set  herself  to  hawking  vegetables  through  the 
streets;  the  elder  daughter  bought  a  large  basket  and 
peddled  the  fruits  of  the  season,  and  the  son  became  a 
roving  chair-mender.  The  little  Rose,  then  eight  years 
of  age,  stayed  at  home  and  kept  house.  At  first  they 
suffered   much  misery.    They  measured   the   mouth- 

[173] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

fuls,  they  blew  upon  their  fingers  to  warm  them,  they 
slept  upon  straw;  but,  little  by  little,  the  earnings  of  the 
mother  and  the  two  children  had  increased;  the  farth- 
ings grew  to  pieces  of  fifteen  sous;  they  were  able  to  have 
a  mattress,  to  light  a  stove,  and  enlarge  the  loaf  of  bread. 
Rose,  in  her  spare  moments,  made  sulphur  matches, 
which  her  sister  sold,  and  knit  stockings  for  all  the  fam- 
ily. When  I  quitted  the  house  these  brave  people  had 
furniture,  Sunday  clothes,  and  a  credit  at  the  baker's. 

The  recollection  of  the  Cauvilles  has  always  remained 
with  me  as  proof  of  what  the  least  resources  can  pro- 
duce when  improved  by  perseverance  and  hearty  good- 
will. It  is  by  the  sum  of  little  efforts  that  one  reaches 
great  results;  each  one  of  our  fingers  is  a  little  thing, 
but  united  they  form  the  hand  with  which  one  raises 
houses  and  pierces  mountains. 

The  habitation  of  my  parents  was  above  that  of 
Mother  Cauville;  above  us  were  only  the  cats  and  the 
sparrows. 

The  better  part  of  my  time  was  passed  in  chasing  this 
small  game  or  rambling  in  the  faubourg.  We  were  a 
dozen  youngsters,  better  furnished  with  appetites  than 
with  shoes,  who  spent  our  time  together  in  the  streets. 
Everything  afforded  us  amusement :  the  snow  of  winter, 
which  was  the  occasion  of  great  battles;  the  water  in  the 
gutters,  which  we  dammed,  turning  the  street  into  a 
pond;  the  meagre  sods  growing  upon  still  unoccupied 
grounds,  with  which  we  built  forts  or  mills.  In  these 
works,  as  in  our  childish  plays,  I  was  neither  the  strong- 
est nor  the  wisest;  but  I  hated  injustice,  and  this  made 
me  the  chosen  arbiter  in  all  quarrels.    The  condemned 

[174] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

party  sometimes  revenged  the  decision  of  the  judge  by 
thrashing  him;  but,  far  from  giving  me  a  distaste  for 
my  impartiaHty,  the  blows  confirmed  it;  it  was  like 
the  nail  well  placed,  the  more  it  is  struck  the  deeper 
it  is  driven. 

The  same  instinct  inclined  me  to  do  only  that  which 
I  believed  permissible  and  to  say  only  that  which  I 
knew.  I  suffered  for  it  more  than  once,  above  all  in  an 
adventure  with  the  chestnut  vender. 

He  was  a  peasant  who  often  traversed  our  quarter 
with  a  donkey  laden  with  fruit  and  nuts,  and  stopped 
at  the  lodging  of  a  fellow  countryman  who  lived  oppo- 
site our  house.  Wine-drinking  often  prolonged  his 
visit,  and,  grouped  before  the  donkey,  we  regarded  his 
burden  with  envious  eyes.  One  day  the  temptation 
was  too  strong.  The  donkey  bore  a  sack,  through  a 
hole  in  which  we  could  see  the  fine,  glistening  chestnuts, 
which  had  the  appearance  of  putting  themselves  at  the 
window  to  provoke  our  greediness.  The  boldest  lad 
winked  knowingly,  and  one  proposed  enlarging  the 
hole.  The  thing  was  deliberated;  I  was  the  only  one 
to  oppose.  As  the  majority  made  the  law,  they  pro- 
ceeded to  the  execution,  when  I  threw  myself  before  the 
sack,  crying  that  no  one  should  touch  it.  I  wished  to 
give  reasons  to  support  my  position,  but  a  fist-blow 
closed  my  mouth.  I  struck  back,  and  a  general  scuffle 
resulted,  which  was  my  Waterloo.  Overwhelmed  by 
numbers  I  drew,  in  my  downfall,  the  sack  which  I  de- 
fended, and  the  peasant,  whom  the  noise  of  the  strife 
had  attracted,  found  me  under  the  feet  of  the  donkey  in 
the  midst  of  his  scattered  chestnuts.     Seeing  my  adver- 

[175] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

saries  fleeing,  he  divined  what  they  had  wished  to  do, 
took  me  for  their  accomplice,  and,  without  more  enhght- 
enment,  set  himself  to  punishing  me  for  the  theft  which 
I  had  prevented.  I  protested  in  vain;  the  vender  be- 
lieved that  he  avenged  his  merchandise,  and  had,  other- 
wise, drunk  too  much  to  understand.  I  escaped  from 
his  hands  bruised,  bloody,  and  furious. 

My  companions  did  not  fail  to  rail  at  my  scruples 
so  badly  recompensed;  but  I  had  an  obstinate  will;  in- 
stead of  being  discouraged  I  became  still  more  set  in  my 
way.  After  all,  if  my  bruises  were  painful  they  did  not 
make  me  ashamed,  and  the  mockers  at  my  conduct  es- 
teemed me  for  it.  This  confirmed  me,  I  have  often 
thought  since  that  in  beating  me  the  chestnut-man  had 
rendered  me,  without  knowing  it,  the  service  of  a  friend. 
Not  alone  had  he  instructed  me  that  it  is  necessary  to  do 
right  for  right's  sake,  not  for  recompense,  but  he  had 
also  furnished  the  occasion  for  showing  a  character. 
I  there  began,  thanks  to  him,  a  reputation  which  later 
I  wished  to  continue;  for  if  good  renown  is  a  recom- 
pense it  is  also  a  check;  the  good  which  others  think 
of  us  obliges  us  more  often  to  merit  it. 

Aside  from  honesty  I  had,  for  the  rest,  all  the  defects 
of  a  street  education.  No  one  took  care  of  me,  and 
I  grew,  like  the  wayside  herbs,  by  the  grace  of  God. 
My  mother  was  occupied  all  the  day  with  the  care  of 
housekeeping,  and  my  father  entered  the  home  only  in 
the  evening  after  work.  I  was  for  both  only  a  mouth 
the  more  to  feed.  They  wished  to  see  me  live  and  not 
to  suffer;  their  foresight  went  no  farther;  it  was  their 
manner  of  loving.     Want,  which  always  kept  near  the 

[176] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

threshold,  sometimes  pushed  the  door  and  entered,  but 
I  do  not  recall  having  felt  it.  When  the  bread  was 
short  they  considered  my  hunger  first;  and  father  and 
mother  lived  from  the  rest  as  they  could. 

Another  recollection  of  the  same  period  is  that  of  our 
Sunday  walks  outside  the  Barriere.  We  used  to  go  and 
sit  in  some  great  hall  full  of  people  who  drank  noisily  and 
who  often  came  to  blows.  I  recall  still  the  efforts  of 
my  mother  and  myself  to  hinder  my  father  from  taking 
part  in  these  quarrels.  We  often  took  him  away  dis- 
figured, and  always  with  great  trouble ;  so  these  were 
for  me  days  of  torture  and  fright.  One  circumstance 
had  rendered  them  still  more  odious.  I  had  a  little 
sister  named  Henriette,  a  blonde  little  creature  as  large 
as  your  fist,  who  slept  near  me  in  an  osier  cradle.  I 
was  fond  of  this  innocent  being,  who  laughed  on  seeing 
me,  and  extended  its  little  arms.  The  Sunday  visits  be- 
yond the  Barriere  displeased  her  still  more  than  me;  her 
cries  irritated  my  father,  who  often  gave  way  to  mal- 
edictions against  her.  One  day,  weary  of  her  tears,  he 
wished  to  take  her;  but  he  was  already  slightly  drunk; 
the  baby  slipped  from  his  hands  and  fell  head-first.  As 
we  returned  they  gave  her  to  me  to  carry.  My  father 
rejoiced  in  having  quieted  her,  and  I,  who  felt  her  head 
balancing  upon  my  shoulder,  believed  she  slept.  Yet 
every  now  and  then  she  uttered  a  feeble  plaint.  Reach- 
ing home,  they  put  her  in  bed,  and  everybody  slept; 
but  the  next  day  I  was  awakened  by  loud  cries.  My 
mother  held  Henriette  upon  her  knees,  while  my  father 
regarded  them  with  crossed  arms  and  lowered  head. 
Little  sister  had  died  during  the  night.  Without  well 
12  [177] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

comprehending  then  what  had  made  her  die,  I  connected 
her  death  with  our  walks  outside  the  Barri^re,  and  this 
made  me  hate  them  still  more.  After  an  interruption 
of  some  weeks  my  father  wished  to  resume  them,  but 
my  mother  refused  to  go,  and  I  was  thus  delivered. 

I  was  ten  years  old,  and  yet  no  one  had  thought  of 
giving  me  any  schooling.  In  this  the  indifference  of 
my  parents  was  supported  by  the  councils  of  Mauricet. 
Mauricet  had  always  been  the  best  friend  of  my  family. 
A  mason,  like  my  father,  and  from  the  same  province,  he 
had,  beyond  the  influence  which  old  relations  give,  that 
which  results  from  a  probity  without  stain,  from  a  proved 
capacity,  and  from  his  well-to-do  condition  acquired  by 
order  and  work.  They  repeated  at  our  house,  ^'Mau- 
ricet has  said  it,"  as  the  lawyers  repeat,  ''It  is  the  law." 
Now  Mauricet  had  a  horror  of  the  printed  letter. 

"What  good  is  it  to  twist  your  son  in  the  alphabet?" 
he  often  said  to  my  father.  "Have  I  had  need  of  the 
black  book  of  the  schools  to  make  my  way?  It  is 
neither  the  pen  nor  the  inkstand,  it  is  the  trowel  and 
the  mortar-bed,  which  make  the  good  workman.  Wait 
two  years  more ;  then  you  shall  give  Peter  Henry  to  me, 
and,  if  the  devil  doesn't  interfere,  we  shall  make  him 
take  well  to  the  ashlar  and  the  mortar." 

My  father  highly  approved ;  in  regard  to  my  mother, 
she  had  preferred  putting  me  at  school  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  me  with  the  little  silver  cross  which  the  best 
scholars  wore ;  yet  she  renounced  without  much  trouble 
the  pride  of  making  me  learned ;  and  I  should  still  know 
how  neither  to  read  nor  write  if  the  good  God  had  not 
himself  interfered  in  the  matter. 

[178] 


GHAPTER  II 

THE   LITTLE   SILVER  CROSS 

UR  friend  Mauricet  not  only  worked  for 
others  as  master- journeyman,  but  for 
some  time  he  had  attempted  httle  en- 
terprises on  his  own  account  which 
had  brought  him  not  a  httle  money 
and  stimulated  him  to  further  vent- 
ures. Some  one  spoke  to  him  of  a  job 
of  masonry  for  a  citizen  of  Versailles 
who  had  before  employed  him.  He  mentioned  it  at 
our  house,  and  my  mother  counselled  him  to  write  to 
the  man;  but  Mauricet  had  a  decided  repugnance  for 
correspondence;  he  declared  that  he  would  like  better 
to  wait  until  Sunday  and  then  go  afoot  to  Versailles 
to  settle  the  business.  Unhappily,  another  was  more 
diligent;  when  he  returned  to  us  the  Monday  follow- 
ing he  informed  us  that  the  man  had  signed  the  con- 
tract the  evening  before  his  visit.  He  regretted  that 
Mauricet  came  too  late,  as  he  would  have  accorded 
the  preference  to  him.  It  was  a  profit  of  some  hun- 
dreds of  francs  lost  because  of  the  lack  of  a  letter.  The 
master-journeyman  detested  paper  and  ink  only  the 
more,  which,  according  to  him,  always  gave  the  ad- 
vantage to  the  intriguers  over  the  good  workmen.  Of 
course,  it  is  understood  that  in  the  eyes  of  Mauricet  the 

[179] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

good  workman  was  he  who  knew  neither  how  to  read 
nor  write. 

But  my  mother  drew  from  the  accident  altogether 
another  lesson ;  she  concluded  that  it  was  good  even  for 
a  workman  to  know  how  to  put  "the  black  upon  the 
white,"  and  she  spoke  of  sending  me  to  school.  My 
father,  who  had  not  thought  about  the  matter  at  all, 
made  no  opposition.  A  whole  year  passed  without  my 
taking  either  to  reading  or  writing.  I  always  had  in 
my  mind  what  I  had  heard  Friend  Mauricct  say,  and  I 
considered  the  instruction  of  the  school  as  a  luxury  of 
which,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  I  could  have  no  need. 
It  was  necessary  for  me  to  value  it  to  understand  what 
service  it  could  be. 

We  were  then,  if  I  recollect  rightly,  in  the  year  1806. 
One  evening  at  the  letting-out  of  school  I  saw  twenty 
workmen  standing  before  a  great  placard  pasted  to  a 
wall.  One  of  them  tried  to  spell  it  out,  but  without  the 
ability  to  decipher  even  the  title.  We  had  among  us  a 
little  hunchback  named  Pierrot,  who  was  the  wisest  of 
the  school  and  who  read  books  as  readily  as  the  others 
could  play  upon  the  sabot.  Seeing  the  silver  cross  with 
the  tri-colored  ribbon  which  he  wore  upon  his  breast, 
the  workmen  called  him.  One  of  them  took  him  in  his 
arms  so  that  he  could  sec  the  placard.  He  set  himself 
to  reading  it  in  his  little,  bird-like  voice: 

Bulletin  of  the  French  army. 
Victory  over  the  Prussians  at  Jena. 

It  was  a  recital  of  the  battle,  with  the  history  of  the 
five  French  battalions  which  the  Prussians  had  not  been 

[180] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

able  to  cut  through,  and  of  the  five  Prussian  battalions 
which  the  French  cavalry  had  scattered  like  a  skein  of 
j3ax.  Pierrot  read  this  with  as  proud  an  air  as  if  he  had 
been  general-in-chief ,  and  the  workmen,  with  their  eyes 
fixed  upon  him,  drank  in  his  words.  When  he  stopped 
the  more  hurried  cried,  "Next!  Next!"  and  the  others 
replied,  "Give  him  time;  he  must  at  least  catch  his 
breath.  The  little  citizen  reads  well !  Come,  my  jewel, 
you  were  at  the  charge  of  Marshal  Davoust!"  And 
all  were  quiet  again  to  hear  Pierrot. 

The  reading  finished,  other  passers  arrived.  The 
little  hunchback  was  obliged  to  begin  over  again.  Of 
him  who  had  habitually  been  treated  with  mockery 
everybody  now  spoke  with  consideration;  one  would 
have  said  that  he  was  of  some  account  for  the  glorious 
news  that  he  had  made  known.  Every  one  was  obliged 
to  him ;  they  addressed  to  him  caressing  and  encourag- 
ing words,  while  on  us  they  imposed  silence  and  kicks; 
the  hunchback  had  become  king  to  all  of  us. 

This  impressed  me  as  the  adventure  of  Mauricet  had 
impressed  my  mother.  Without  reasoning  the  thing, 
I  felt  that  it  was  good  sometimes  to  know.  The  little 
triumph  of  Pierrot  had  given  me  the  taste  for  the  black 
letter.  I  cannot  say  that  I  took  a  resolution,  but  from 
the  next  day  I  became  more  attentive  to  the  lessons. 
Some  eulogies  of  M.  Saurin,  my  master,  encouraged 
this  good  disposition,  and  my  first  progress  served  to 
give  me  courage. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  year  I  knew  how  to  read  and 
write.  M.  Saurin  began  to  give  me  lessons  in  arith- 
metic.    These  lessons  were  only  accorded  to  the  favor- 

[i8i] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

ite  scholars.  They  took  them  in  a  certain  little  room 
where  there  was  a  blackboard,  upon  which  M.  Saurin 
gave  his  demonstrations.  The  uninitiated  were  for- 
bidden to  approach  this  sanctuary.  The  room  with 
the  blackboard  was  for  them  like  Bluebeard's  chamber. 
M.  Saurin  taught  us  the  four  rules  with  as  much  solem- 
nity as  if  he  had  instructed  us  how  to  make  gold,  and 
perhaps,  after  all,  he  made  us  understand  a  science  as 
precious.  I  have  often  thought  that  the  knowledge  of 
arithmetic  was  the  greatest  gift  which  one  man  could 
make  another.  Intelligence  is  very  much,  love  of  work 
much  more,  perseverance  still  more;  but  without  arith- 
metic all  that  is  like  a  tool  which  strikes  in  the  empty 
air.  To  calculate  is  to  find  the  connection  there  is  be- 
tween effort  and  result — that  is  to  say,  between  cause 
and  effect.  He  who  does  not  calculate  goes  by  chance; 
in  advance  he  does  not  know  if  he  takes  the  best  way; 
afterward  he  is  ignorant  if  he  has  taken  it.  Arithmetic 
is  in  industrial  things  like  conscience  in  things  moral: 
it  is  only  after  one  has  consulted  it  that  he  can  see 
clearly  and  feel  easy.  Experience  has  many  times 
proved  this  which  I  say,  both  for  others  and  for  myself. 
Thanks  to  the  lessons  of  M.  Saurin,  I  was  very  soon 
able  to  cipher  and  to  resolve  all  the  questions  which  he 
placed  upon  the  blackboard.  After  the  departure  of 
Pierrot  I  was  at  the  head  of  the  class;  the  little  silver 
cross  no  more  quitted  my  patched  vest.  I  had  done 
like  Napoleon,  I  was  passed  emperor  for  all  time  to 
come. 


[182] 


CHAPTER  III 

WIDOW  AND   ORPHAN 

NE  winter  evening  M.  Saurin  kept  me 
later  than  usual  to  solve  problems;  I 
did  not  return  home  until  after  night- 
fall. On  arriving  I  found  the  door 
closed!  It  was  the  hour  that  my 
father  habitually  returned  and  when 
my  mother  prepared  the  supper.  I 
could  not  comprehend  what  had  be- 
come of  them;  I  sat  down  on  the  stairway  to  wait  for 
them. 

I  was  there  some  time  when  Rose,  descending,  per- 
ceived me.  I  asked  her  if  she  knew  why  our  door  was 
closed ;  but  instead  of  responding  to  me  she  remounted 
with  a  frightened  look,  and  I  heard  her  cry  on  reenter- 
ing her  apartment,  "Peter  Henry  is  there."  Some  re- 
ply was  made,  then  there  were  hurried  whisperings; 
finally.  Mother  Cauville  appeared  at  the  top  of  the  stairs 
and  invited  me  in  a  very  friendly  voice  to  come  up  to 
her  room.  She  was  just  sitting  down  at  table  with  her 
children,  and  wished  me  to  partake  of  their  supper.  I 
said  that  I  would  wait  for  my  mother. 

''She  has  gone  out — on  business,"  said  the  widow, 
with  a  hesitating  air;  "very  likely  she  will  not  return 
soon.  Eat  and  drink,  my  poor  Peter;  this  you  will  be 
sure  of." 

[183] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

I  took  a  place  near  Rose ;  everybody  kept  silence  save 
Mother  Cauville,  who  pressed  me  to  eat;  but,  without 
knowing  why,  I  had  a  pang  at  the  heart.  I  kept  listen- 
ing to  hear  any  one  who  might  come  up  the  stairway, 
and  I  looked  every  moment  toward  the  door. 

The  meal  ended,  they  gave  me  a  chair  near  the  fire; 
the  Cauvilles  stood  around  me,  but  said  nothing.  This 
silence,  these  cares,  finished  by  frightening  me;  I  got 
up  crying  that  I  wished  to  see  my  mother. 

"Wait,  she  will  come  back,"  said  the  widow. 

I  asked  where  she  was. 

"Well,  then,"  resumed  Mother  Cauville,  "she  is  at 
the  hospital." 

"Is  she  sick,  then?" 

"No;  she  has  gone  with  your  father,  who  has  had  an 
accident  at  the  building-yard." 

I  declared  that  I  wished  to  rejoin  them,  but  the  vege- 
table-seller opposed  me.  She  pretended  ignorance  of 
which  hospital  the  wounded  man  had  been  carried  to, 
and  argued,  besides,  that  they  would  not  admit  me. 
I  was  obliged  then  to  wait.  My  heart  seemed  as  if  in  a 
vise,  and  I  choked.  Everybody  else  seemed  affected 
in  the  same  way.  We  were  seated  around  the  fire, 
which  crackled  softly;  outside  might  be  heard  the  rain 
and  the  cold  wind  rattling  upon  the  dilapidated  roof 
of  the  old  house.  At  this  moment  a  dog  set  to  barking 
toward  the  open  fields  of  Pantin,  and,  without  knowing 
why,  I  began  to  weep.  Mother  Cauville  let  me  alone, 
saying  nothing,  as  if  she  did  not  wish  to  give  me  hope 
in  consoling  me. 

Finally,  late  in  the  evening,  we  heard  heavy  steps 
[184] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

upon  the  stairs.  The  neighbor  and  her  children  ran  to 
the  door.  I  got  up  trembhng  and  looked  toward  the 
entrance ;  my  mother  appeared.  She  was  dripping  with 
rain.  Her  face,  spotted  with  mud  and  blood,  had  an 
expression  which  I  had  never  seen.  She  advanced  as 
far  as  the  hearth  without  saying  anything  and  fell  upon 
a  chair.  We  could  see  that  she  wished  to  speak,  for  her 
lips  moved,  but  without  utterance. 

I  threw  myself  against  her  and  pressed  her  in  my 
arms.  The  vegetable-seller  finally  asked  her  for  news 
of  Jerome. 

"Well,  then,  I  have  told  you,"  stammered  my  mother, 
in  a  voice  almost  unintelligible,  "the  doctor  told  us  im- 
mediately— he  only  had  time  to  recognize  me — he  gave 
me  his  watch — and  then — all  was  over!" 

The  neighbor  wrung  her  hands ;  her  children  looked 
at  each  other;  as  for  me,  I  had  not  well  comprehended; 
I  began  crying  that  I  wished  to  go  to  the  hospital  where 
my  father  was.  At  this  demand  the  poor  woman 
straightened  herself  and,  seizing  me  with  both  hands, 
shook  me  with  a  kind  of  insane  anger. 

"Your  father!  unhappy  one!"  she  said,  "but  you 
have  one  no  more!  Understand  well,  you  have  one 
no  more!" 

I  looked  at  her  with  fright ;  this  idea  could  not  enter 
my  rpind ;  I  continued  to  repeat  that  I  wished  to  see  my 
father. 

"Do  you  not  understand,  then,  that  he  is  dead?" 
interrupted  Mother  Cauville,  harshly. 

This  enlightened  me.  I  had  seen  my  little  sister; 
I  knew  what  death  was.     This  word  connected  itself 

[185] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

in  my  memory  with  many  frightful  images — a  winding- 
sheet,  a  nail-studded  coffin,  a  hole  dug  in  the  earth! 
I  began  crying  and  sobbing.  They  drew  me  from  my 
mother  and  led  me  to  our  lodging. 

I  recall  nothing  that  followed.  When  I  saw  my 
mother  the  next  day  she  was  in  bed ;  she  seemed  to  be 
better  than  the  evening  before,  because  her  paleness 
had  left  her;  they  told  me  that  she  had  the  fever. 
Friend  Mauricet  came  during  the  day  to  see  her;  but 
they  sent  me  away  while  he  talked  with  her.  The  next 
day  he  returned,  seeking  me  for  the  burial.  I  had  on 
my  best  clothes,  and  they  attached  a  black  crape  to  my 
hat.  There  were  no  more  than  six  or  eight  to  follow 
the  hearse,  which  surprised  me.  My  father  was  put 
into  the  public  graveyard.  Mauricet  immediately 
bought  a  wooden  cross,  which  he  planted  himself  at 
the  place  where  they  had  buried  him.  I  returned  with 
red  eyes,  but  with  a  heart  already  solaced.  I  was  like 
most  children,  with  whom  grief  does  not  last  long. 

On  leaving  the  cemetery  Friend  Mauricet  returned 
with  me  to  my  mother's  dwelling.  At  sight  of  us  she 
burst  into  tears,  for  our  return  announced  to  her  that 
her  companion  of  twenty  years  was  forever  gone;  but 
Mauricet  was  displeased. 

"Now,  Madeleine,"  said  he,  with  a  grufEness  through 
which  one  felt  the  friendship,  "this  is  not  reasonable 
of  you.  Jerome  is,  like  you,  where  the  good  God  has 
put  him!  Each  one  has  his  duty  to  do — he  to  repose 
and  you  to  work  and  take  courage.  Here  is  a  poor  lad 
who  has  need  of  you;  see  if  he  is  not  another  Jerome; 
he  resembles  him  already  as  one  sou  another." 

[i86] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

He  had  pushed  me  toward  my  mother,  who  em- 
braced me,  sobbing. 

"Enough,"  he  resumed,  drawing  me  away  at  the  end 
of  some  minutes;  "wipe  your  eyes.  Come,  close  the 
fountain  of  your  heart.  You  are  a  brave  one,  my 
widow;  the  question  is  to  prove  it.  What  do  you  pro- 
pose to  do  now  ?  Let  us  speak  of  this ;  it  is  the  most 
pressing." 

My  mother  repHed  that  she  knew  of  nothing,  that  she 
did  not  see  any  means  of  Hving,  that  nothing  was  left 
to  her  but  begging  at  the  doors. 

"Don't  say  such  stupidities!"  exclaimed  Mauricet, 
disapprovingly.  "Is  this  an  idea  which  ought  to  come 
to  the  widow  of  a  workman  ?  If  you  have  hands  to  beg 
with  you  have  them  to  work  with,  also!  One  cannot 
believe  that  you  fear  work,  you  whom  I  always  cite  to 
my  daughter  and  wife.  Does  any  one  know  better  how 
to  economize  ?  Is  there  a  better  laundress  in  the  quar- 
ter? But  is  it  necessary  for  me  to  recall  to  you  the 
abihty  of  your  fingers  ?  " 

These  praises  raised  the  spirits  of  my  mother  a  little ; 
she  consented  to  seek  with  Mauricet  for  something  to 
do.  The  mason  already  had  his  plans,  which  he  made 
her  accept  with  the  air  of  leaving  the  honor  to  the 
widow. 

It  was  agreed  that  she  should  set  up  a  lodging-house 
for  young  men,  while  I  entered  a  certain  building-yard 
as  mason's  helper.  Mauricet  promised  to  watch  over 
all,  and  if,  in  the  beginning,  the  profits  did  not  suffice, 
he  engaged  himself,  in  his  slang  of  the  faubourg,  "to 
put  a  little  butter  in  the  spinach." 

[187] 


CHAPTER  IV 

HOLY   MONDAY 

N  making  me  accept  the  place  of 
mason's  helper  Friend  Mauricet  said 
to  me: 

"You  have  made  a  beginning,  Peter 
Henry;  be  a  truly  good  helper  if  you 
wish  some  day  to  become  a  true  work- 
man. In  our  trade,  you  see,  it  is  as 
in  the  fashionable  world;  the  best 
valets  make  the  best  masters.  Go  ahead,  then,  and 
if  some  journeyman  hustles  you,  accept  the  thing  in 
good  part ;  at  your  age  the  shame  is  not  in  receiving  a 
kick,  but  of  meriting  it." 

The  recommendation  was  not  useless,  considering 
the  manners  and  usages  of  the  trade.  In  all  times  the 
mason  has  had  the  right  of  treating  his  helper  paternally 
— that  is  to  say,  of  thrashing  him  for  his  education.  I 
was  put  at  the  orders  of  a  Limousin,  who  had  kept,  in 
this  regard,  the  old  traditions.  At  the  least  awkward- 
ness the  blows  rained  upon  me  with  a  stream  of  mal- 
edictions like  the  thunder  and  showers  of  April.  I  was 
at  first  stunned ;  but  I  set  myself  quickly  to  understand 
the  work  and  soon  "served  with  precision,"  as  Friend 
Mauricet  said. 
At  the  end  of  a  month  I  was  the  best  helper  in  the 
[  i88  ] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

stone-yard.  The  Limousin  was  just  enough  not  to  hold 
ill-will  against  me.  He  continued  to  punish  me  upon 
occasion  for  my  awkwardness,  but  without  seeking  pre- 
texts; the  man  was  brutal  but  not  wicked.  His  severity 
seemed  to  him  a  right,  and  he  struck  the  helper  who 
erred  as  the  judge  applies  the  law,  without  hate  against 
the  condemned. 

Although  a  little  rough,  my  new  trade  did  not  dis- 
please me.  It  permitted  me  to  display  my  strength 
and  agility.  Mauricet  did  not  fail  to  remark  them,  and 
they  soon  gave  me  a  reputation  among  the  journeymen. 
I  applied  myself  to  sustain  it  with  redoubled  zeal. 
Good  fame  is,  at  the  same  time,  a  recompense  and  a 
chain ;  if  it  profits  one  it  pledges  him ;  it  is  like  advance 
money  received  from  the  public,  and  which  obliges  one 
to  do  his  duty.  I  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  good- 
will of  all  the  workmen  in  the  yard  by  my  good-will. 
This  enabled  me  to  learn  the  trade  more  rapidly  and 
with  less  effort  than  many  of  my  fellows,  some  of  whom 
never  came  to  know  it  at  all.  The  lessons  which  were 
refused  them,  and  which  they  were  obliged,  so  to  speak, 
to  steal,  were  given  to  me  with  readiness.  I  became 
the  student  of  all  the  journeymen;  each  one  of  them 
made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  teach  me  something.  They 
permitted  me  to  attempt  the  easier  work  and  directed 
my  efforts.  Mauricet,  especially,  always  had  an  eye 
upon  me;  he  spared  neither  counsel  nor  encourage- 
ment. 

''You  see,  Peter  Henry,"  he  repeated  to  me,  continu- 
ally, "a,  mason  is  like  a  soldier;  he  should  do  honor  to 
the  regiment  of  the  trowel.     The  architect  is  our  general 

[189] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

— he  makes  the  plan  of  the  battle ;  but  it  is  for  us  to  gain 
it  in  .bravely  working  the  mortar  and  the  stone,  as  the 
troopers  over  there  in  Germany  work  the  enemy.  The 
true  workman  thinks  not  alone  of  his  account  at  the 
baker's.  Ke  loves  the  work  of  his  hands;  it  is  his  glory. 
I  have  never  placed  the  cap-sheaf  upon  a  gable  with- 
out feeling  something.  The  houses  in  which  I  have  had 
a  hand  become,  as  one  might  say,  my  children ;  when  I 
see  them  they  rejoice  my  eyes;  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
tenants  are  a  little  obliged  to  me,  and  I  am  interested  in 
them.  When  I  speak  of  this  there  are  those  who  sneer 
and  regard  me  as  an  antediluvian;  but  the  good  work- 
men comprehend  me  and  agree  with  my  sentiment. 
Believe  me,  also,  little  one,  if  you  wish  to  have  your 
place  among  the  best  fellows,  put  heart  in  the  handle  of 
your  trowel.  It  is  only  this  which  can  make  the  master- 
journeyman." 

These  encouragements  and  my  ambition  so  much 
hastened  my  progress  that  I  found  myself  prepared  to 
take  the  rank  of  workman  at  an  age  when  one  usually 
becomes  an  apprentice.  Such  success  made  me  giddy; 
raised  too  soon  from  the  dependence  which  until  then 
I  had  endured,  I  abused  an  authority  which  I  had  not 
learned  how  to  exercise.  My  helper  was  the  worst- 
treated  in  the  yard.  Mauricet  warned  me  two  or  three 
times. 

"Take  care,  youngster,"  he  said,  with  his  customary 
familiarity;  "you  have  yet  only  milk  teeth;  if  you  bite 
too  hard  you  will  break  them!" 

His  prophecy  was  fulfilled  to  the  letter,  for  one  fine 
day  my  servant,  tired  of  my  bad  treatment,  rebelled  in 

[190] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

earnest  and  served  me  like  the  plaster  which  he  had  the 
task  of  preparing.  I  carried  more  than  a  month  the 
marks  of  this  correction,  too  well  merited,  but  which 
profited  me.  Straightened  upon  this  side,  I  let  myself 
fall  upon  another. 

Some  of  the  journeymen  of  the  stone-yard  devoutly 
kept  "Holy  Monday,"  and  had  tried  many  times  to  lead 
me  with  them.  I  resisted,  at  first,  without  much  trouble. 
Recollections  of  the  Barriere  could  not  make  me  laugh. 
They  attacked  me  with  railleries;  they  declared  that  I 
feared  being  whipped  by  my  mother,  that  I  was  not  yet 
weaned,  and  that  the  brandy  burned  my  throat.  These 
silly  sayings  piqued  me.  I  wished  to  prove  that  I  was 
no  longer  a  child  by  conducting  myself  badly  as  a  man. 
Drawn  outside  the  Barriere  the  next  pay-day,  and  sup- 
plied with  the  wages  of  a  fortnight,  I  remained  there 
until  all  of  it  had  passed  from  my  own  pocket  into  the 
wine-seller's  drawer. 

Sunday  and  Monday  had  been  employed  in  this  long 
debauch.  I  returned  home  the  evening  of  the  second 
day  without  hat,  covered  with  mud,  and  my  body 
bruised  by  all  the  walls  of  the  faubourg.  My  mother, 
ignorant  of  what  had  happened,  believed  me  wounded 
or  dead ;  she  had  sought  me  at  the  morgue  at  first,  then 
at  the  hospital.  I  found  her  with  Mauricet,  who  was 
trying  to  reassure  her.  The  sight  of  me  eased  her  in- 
quietude, but  not  her  pain.  After  the  first  joy  of  re- 
covering me  came  the  grief  of  seeing  me  in  such  a  state. 
Reproaches  succeeded  the  lamentations.  I  was  so 
inebriated  that  I  scarcely  heard  and  failed  to  compre- 
hend.    The  tone  alone  informed  me  that  I  was  being 

[191] 


EMILE  SUOVESTRE 

reproved.  Like  most  intoxicated  persons,  I  was  in  a 
glorious  mood,  and  regarded  myself  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  as  one  of  the  kings  of  the  world.  I  answered  by- 
imposing  silence  on  the  good  woman,  and  declaring 
that  I  should  henceforth  live  after  my  own  inclinations. 
My  mother  raised  her  voice,  I  shouted  louder  yet,  and 
the  quarrel  grew  bitter,  when  Friend  Mauricet  put  a 
stop  to  it.  He  declared  it  was  not  a  time  to  talk,  and 
made  me  go  to  bed  without  any  remark.  I  slept  soundly 
until  the  next  day. 

When  I  opened  my  eyes  in  the  morning  I  recalled  all 
that  had  passed,  and  I  felt  a  little  shame,  mingled  with 
much  embarrassment.  However,  self-conceit  hindered 
my  repentance.  After  all,  I  was  master  of  the  money 
gained  by  my  work ;  I  could  dispose  of  my  time ;  no  one 
had  any  right  to  gainsay  it,  and  I  resolved  to  cut  shoort 
all  remarks. 

The  thought  of  my  mother  alone  disturbed  me. 
Wishing  to  avoid  her  reproaches,  I  got  up  quietly  and 
left  without  seeing  her. 

When  I  arrived  at  the  stone-yard  I  found  the  others 
already  at  work;  but  they  appeared  not  to  notice  me. 
I  set  to  work  in  bad  enough  humor,  but  with  nonchal- 
ance. These  two  days  of  debauch  had  taken  away 
from  me  all  taste  for  my  trade.  Besides,  I  felt  an  in- 
ward humiliation  which  I  hid  under  an  air  of  bravado. 
I  listened  to  what  the  other  workmen  said,  always  fear- 
ing to  hear  some  joke  or  some  unpleasant  judgment  on 
my  account.  When  the  contractor  arrived  I  feigned 
not  seeing  him,  and  I  avoided  speaking  to  him  for  fear 
he  would  ask  the  cause  of  my  absence  the  day  before.     I 

[192] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

had  lost  that  good  conscience  which  had  hitherto  made 
me  look  the  world  fearlessly  in  the  face.  I  felt  in  my 
life  now  a  recollection  to  hide. 

Those  who  had  accompanied  me  to  the  Barriere  had 
not  yet  returned;  the  contractor  remarked  it. 

'*It  is  an  infirmity  which  they  have,"  said  the  wag  of 
the  yard.  "When  they  work,  by  chance,  they  swallow 
so  much  plaster  that  at  least  three  days  are  required  to 
rinse  their  throats  with  wine." 

All  the  journeymen  set  to  laughing;  but  it  seemed  that 
there  was  in  this  laugh  a  sort  of  scorn.  I  reddened,  in- 
voluntarily, as  if  the  pleasantry  had  been  made  for  me. 
New  to  the  experience,  I  still  felt  scruples  and  remorse. 

The  day  passed  sadly  enough.  The  sort  of  ill-feeling 
which  afifected  all  my  members  was  communicated  to 
my  spirit.     I  was  tired,  inside  and  out. 

While  we  worked  Friend  Mauricet  did  not  say  a  word 
to  me ;  but  at  the  hour  of  going  home  he  came  to  me  and 
said  that  we  would  go  together.  As  he.  lodged  at  the 
other  end  of  Paris  I  asked  him  if  he  had  any  business 
in  our  quarter. 

'*  We  shall  see,"  he  briefly  responded. 

I  wished  to  follow  my  ordinary  road ;  but  he  took  me 
by  other  streets  without  saying  why,  until  we  had 
reached  a  certain  house  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Martin; 
there  he  stopped. 

''Do  you  see  the  high  chimney  which  rises  over  the 
gable  of  this  house,  and  which  I  call  Jerome's  chimney  ? 
It  is  there  that  your  father  was  killed!" 

I  trembled  violently,  and  looked  at  the  fatal  chimney 
with  a  kind  of  horror  mixed  with  anger. 
13  [  193  ] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

"Ah!  it  was  there,"  I  repeated  in  a  tremulous  voice. 
"You  were  there,  Mauricet?" 

"I  was  there." 

"And  how  did  the  thing  happen?" 

"Not  by  the  fault  of  the  building,  nor  by  the  fault  of 
the  trade,"  replied  Mauricet.  "The  scaffold  was  well- 
established,  the  work  without  danger;  but  your  father 
had  come  there  on  leaving  the  Barriere.  His  sight  was 
bleared,  his  legs  were  unsteady;  he  mistook  space  for 
a  plank,  and  he  was  killed  without  excuse." 

I  felt  the  blood  mount  to  my  face  and  my  heart  beat 
violently. 

"Father  Jerome  had  been  a  good  workman,"  re- 
sumed Mauricet,  "if  the  love  of  drink  had  not  undone 
him.  Because  of  long  sitting  at  the  wine-seller's  he  had 
weakened  his  strength,  his  skill,  and  his  mind.  But, 
bah !  one  only  lives  once,  as  some  one  says ;  it  is  neces- 
sary to  amuse  one's  self  before  his  burial.  If  the 
widows  and  the  orphans  are  hungry  and  cold  after- 
ward they  can  go  to  the  Bureau  of  Charity  and  blow 
upon  their  fingers.     Say,  is  this  not  your  opinion?" 

Then  he  began  to  sing  a  Bacchic  refrain  in  vogue  at 
the  time : 

Let  us  fill  ourselves  with  good  drink. 
When  one  knows  good  wine  he  knows  all. 

I  was  humiliated,  confused,  and  I  did  not  know  what 
to  say.  I  well  felt  that  Mauricet  did  not  speak  seri- 
ously. But  to  approve  him  made  me  ashamed ;  to  con- 
tradict him  was  to  condemn  myself.  I  lowered  my 
head  without  saying  anything.  Yet  he  continued  to 
gaze  at  this  cursed  gable. 

[194] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

"Poor  Jerome!"  resumed  Mauricet,  changing  his 
voice  to  a  tenderer  tone;  "if  he  had  not  followed  bad 
examples  when  he  was  young  we  should  still  have  him 
with  us.  Madeleine  would  rest  her  old  body,  and  you — 
you  would  have  had  some  one  to  show  you  the  way. 
But  no,  there  is  nothing  left  of  him,  not  even  a  good 
memory,  for  one  regrets  only  the  good  workmen.  When 
the  wretched  man  was  crushed  upon  the  pavement,  do 
you  know  what  the  sub-contractor  said?  'One  more 
drunkard  the  less!  Take  him  away  and  sweep  the 
walk.'  " 

I  could  not  restrain  a  movement  of  indignation. 

"Well,  he  was  a  hard  one,"  continued  Mauricet. 
"He  esteemed  men  only  for  what  they  were  worth.  If 
death  had  taken  a  good  workman  he  would  have  said, 
'  This  is  a  pity! '  After  all,  at  the  bottom  every  one  felt 
like  him,  and  the  proof  is  the  number  of  friends  who 
followed  the  body  of  Jerome  to  the  grave.  Those  with 
whom  he  had  caroused  turned  their  backs  upon  him 
when  he  was  in  his  coffin;  for  these  worthless  fellows, 
you  see,  while  they  associate  together  do  not  love  one 
another." 

I  listened,  meantime,  without  replying.  We  had 
resumed  our  walk.  At  the  first  crossing  Mauricet 
stopped  and,  pointing  to  the  chimney  which  stood  high 
above  the  roofs,  "When  you  wish  to  resume  your  life 
of  yesterday,"  he  said,  "look  at  it  first  from  this  side, 
and  the  wine  which  you  drink  shall  taste  of  blood! " 

He  went  his  way  and  left  me  filled  with  dis- 
tress. 

I  reentered  my  mother's  house  much  troubled,  with- 
[195] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

out  wishing  to  appear  so.  I  struggled  against  the  les- 
son that  I  had  received.  I  revolted  internally  against 
feeling  so  shaken.  I  swore  silently  not  to  recede,  and 
to  continue  to  lead  a  jovial  life.  I  sought  all  the  more 
to  fortify  myself  in  my  impenitence  that  I  expected  the 
reproaches  of  Madeleine.  Prepared  to  cut  them  short 
by  a  declaration  of  independence,  I  entered  our  poor 
dwelling  with  a  high  head  and  a  deliberate  step. 

Mother  had  the  supper-table  ready  and  received  me 
as  usual.  This  kindness  disconcerted  all  my  resolutions. 
I  felt  myself  so  much  distressed  with  the  consciousness 
of  my  fault  that  if  I  had  not  made  an  effort  I  should 
have  wept.  My  mother  had  the  air  of  seeing  nothing. 
(I  have  since  learned  that  Mauricet  gave  her  the  lesson.) 
She  also  talked  cheerfully,  as  was  her  custom,  not  speak- 
ing of  the  fortnight's  wages  which  I  had  appropriated 
for  the  first  time,  and  appearing  not  at  all  disturbed. 
I  went  to  bed  completely  disarmed,  and  my  heart  stung 
with  remorse.  All  night  long  I  dreamed  I  saw  my 
father  tottering  on  the  scaffold  or  being  crushed  on  the 
pavement.  I  found  myself  intoxicated,  high  upon  a 
cornice,  suspended  in  mid-air  and  about  to  fall.  When 
I  got  up  the  next  day  my  head  was  heavy  and  all  my 
limbs  ached. 

However,  I  began  working  at  the  ordinary  hour.  It 
was  another  bad  day.  I  was  less  stunned  than  the  day 
before,  but  more  sad.  To  embarrassment  had  suc- 
ceeded regret.  It  was  nearly  a  week  before  I  regained 
my  accustomed  vigor  and  spirits.  The  first  time  that 
Mauricet  heard  me  singing  he  passed  near  me  and,  slap- 
ping me  on  the  shoulder,  ''Contentment  has  returned 

[196] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

to  the  house,"  he  said  to  me.  "That  is  right,  laddie. 
Guard  well  the  bird  there." 

"Fear  nothing,"  I  responded,  laughing;  ''we  shall 
make  him  a  pretty  cage  where  he  shall  find  something 
to  eat." 

"See,  above  all,  that  he  shall  not  have  too  much  to 
drink,"  replied  Mauricet. 

We  exchanged  looks,  and  he  passed,  whistling. 

Thirty-three  years  have  gone  by  since  that  day,  and 
I  have  never  forgotten  the  promise  which  I  then  made 
to  myself.  Exposed  to  all  the  temptations  of  intemper- 
ance, I  have  finished  by  no  more  caring  for  them.  In 
the  good,  as  well  as  in  the  bad,  it  is  the  first  steps  which 
decide  the  road.  A  habit  is  sometimes  impossible  to 
vanquish,  but  nearly  always  easy  to  avoid. 


[197] 


CHAPTER  V 


MOTHER  MADELEINE 


JNCE I  had  earned  journeyman's  wages 
my  home  had  become  more  comfort- 
able. We  had  been  able  to  return 
to  our  old  lodging.  The  furnishings 
which  it  became  necessary  to  sell  at  my 
father's  death  had  been  replaced.  We 
had  decidedly  risen  in  life,  and  the 
neighbors  now  looked  upon  us  as  rich. 
All  went  well  until  the  time  when  my  mother  began  to 
complain  of  her  eyesight,  which  had  decreased,  little 
by  little,  without  the  dear  woman's  noticing  it,  or,  rather, 
without  wishing  to  confess  it  to  herself.  She  always 
had  a  pretext.  To-day  it  was  the  smoke,  to-morrow 
the  mist,  the  day  following  a  catarrh  in  the  head.  It 
was  not  until  after  ten  years  that  she  bethought  herself 
that  her  eyes  were  at  fault.  She  no  longer  distinguished 
minute  objects ;  it  was  necessary  to  give  up  the  knife.  I 
began  to  be  disturbed.  Mauricet,  with  whom  I  coun- 
selled, proposed  consulting  an  oculist  for  whom  he  had 
worked  and  with  whom  he  was  acquainted. 

We  had  great  trouble  to  persuade  my  mother,  who, 
never  having  been  sick,  would  not  believe  in  doctors. 
At  last,  however,  she  consented. 

The  oculist  was  a  man  of  middle  age,  tall,  thin,  and 
[198] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

superbly  calm.  He  looked  at  the  eyes  of  my  mother, 
said  not  a  word,  and  wrote  a  prescription  which  he  gave 
to  me.  I  very  much  wished  a  word  to  reassure  me. 
but  as  others  were  waiting  their  turn  I  dared  say  noth- 
ing, and  we  were  obliged  to  leave  as  we  had  come.  Yet 
at  the  door  I  perceived  that  Mauricet  had  not  followed. 
More  bold  with  the  oculist,  he  had  stopped,  without 
doubt  to  question  him.  We  waited  for  him  some  min- 
utes at  the  bottom  of  the  staircase,  where  he  at  last  re- 
joined us. 

"Well,  then,  what  did  your  charlatan  say?"  asked 
my  mother,  who  could  not  pardon  the  doctor  his  silent 
coldness. 

"He  orders  you  to  eat  roast  meat  and  to  sleep  upon 
both  ears,"  responded  Mauricet. 

"But  is  he  sure  of  the  cure?"  I  demanded. 

"Has  he  not  given  you  a  paper?"  replied  the  mason. 

"Here  it  is." 

"Then  do  what  he  has  written  there  and  let  the  water 
nm  under  the  Pont  Neuf." 

The  accent  of  Mauricet  had  a  brevity  about  it  which 
struck  me;  but  I  could  say  nothing  at  the  moment.  He 
took  the  arm  of  the  dear  woman,  to  whom  he  told  a 
hundred  stories  on  the  way.  Never  had  I  seen  him  so 
talkative.  However,  when  we  had  reached  home  I 
drew  him  aside  to  say  that  I  wished  to  speak  to  him. 

"I,  also,"  he  replied,  in  a  low  voice.  "When  I  go 
out  follow  me." 

My  mother  had  already  resumed  her  duties  about  the 
house.  Mauricet  did  not  delay  his  leave-taking,  and  I 
followed  him. 

[199] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

As  we  descended  the  stairs  I  uneasily  demanded  of 
him  what  he  wished  to  say  to  me. 

"Wait  until  we  are  in  the  street,"  he  replied. 

Arriving  there,  he  walked  a  few  steps  without  speak- 
ing.    I  could  wait  no  longer. 

"  In  the  name  of  God,  Mauricet,  what  did  the  oculist 
say  to  you  ?"  I  demanded,  with  anguish. 

He  turned  toward  me. 

"What  did  he  say  to  me?  Your  doubts  are  well 
founded,"  he  resumed,  quickly.  "He  believes  that 
Mother  Madeleine  will  become  bhnd." 

I  cried  out;  but  he  continued,  almost  as  if  in  anger: 

"Come,  come!  the  question  is  not  of  exclamations. 
Let  us  talk  quietly,  like  men." 

"Blind!"  I  repeated;  "and  what  will  become  of  her? 
How  shall  I  find  her  a  companion  ?  Who  will  care  for 
her?" 

"Ah,  see  here,"  said  Mauricet;  "it  is  clear  that  some- 
thing must  be  done,  and  that  is  why  I  have  spoken  of 
the  thing.  A  blind  old  woman  will  be  a  heavy  burden 
for  a  young  man.  It  is  for  you  to  see  if  you  find  it  too 
heavy." 

I  looked  at  him  with  a  questioning  air. 

"Well,  yes,  yes,"  he  continued,  in  response  to  my 
look;  "you  can  discharge  yourself  from  it  if  you  are 
so  disposed.  There  are  retreats  for  poor,  incurable 
people." 

"Where  is  that?" 

"At  the  hospital." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  put  my  mother  with  the  beg- 
gars?" I  exclaimed. 

[  200  ] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

"Parbleu!  Are  you  going  to  play  the  senator?" 
said  Mauricet,  without  regarding  me.  "Those  higher 
up  than  Madeleine  go  there — true  ladies  who  have  had 
servants  and  carriages." 

"Then  it  is  because  they  have  no  sons." 

"That  may  or  may  not  be,"  continued  the  mason, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  "Sons  are  under  no  more 
obhgations  than  mothers,  and  there  are  not  a  few  who 
carry  their  babes  to  the  foundling  asylum." 

"But  it  isn't  mine,"  I  interrupted,  quickly.  "Mine 
carried  me  in  her  amis  while  I  was  little.  She  nour- 
ished me  with  her  milk  and  with  her  bread.  I  have 
grown  like  a  vine  against  the  wall  of  her  love :  and  now 
that  the  wall  has  cracks  shall  I  let  another  sustain  it? 
No,  no,  Friend  Mauricet,  you  cannot  have  believed 
that.  If  the  good  woman  truly  loses  her  sight,  well, 
there  remains  mine.  Between  the  two  there  will  only 
be  an  eye  apiece;  but  we  shall  be  content." 

"You  say  this  from  the  heart,"  observed  Mauricet; 
"but  it  is  necessary  to  reflect  with  coolness.  Consider 
that  it  is  a  clog  which  you  rivet  to  your  feet.  Good- 
by  Kberty,  the  economies,  marriage  even,  for  it  will  be 
a  long  time  before  you  can  earn  enough  to  undertake  a 
family  with  such  a  cipher." 

"A  cipher!"  I  repeated,  scandalized.  "You  de- 
ceive yourself,  Mauricet.  She  will  give  me  content- 
ment and  courage.  When  I  was  born  I  was  also  a 
cipher  for  the  poor  creature,  and  yet  she  received  me 
willingly.  Be  very  sure  that  I  know  to  what  I  engage 
myself,  and  that  I  have  not  my  head  in  my  heart,  as  you 
appear  to  believe.     I  j5nd  the  trial  hard,  and  I  would 

[201] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

have  wished  not  to  support  it ;  but,  since  it  has  come,  let 
God  punish  me  if  I  fail  to  do  my  duty  to  the  end ! " 

Here  Mauricet,  who  had  not  yet  looked  at  me,  turned 
quickly  and  took  me  by  both  hands. 

"You  are  a  truly  good  workman!"  he  cried,  with  a 
brightening  face.  "I  wished  to  see  what  was  in  you 
and  if  the  foundations  were  solid.  Now  I  am  content. 
Away  with  the  sham!    Let  us  talk  with  open  hearts." 

"But  did  the  oculist  really  think  that  there  was  no 
remedy?"  I  asked. 

"That  is  his  opinion,"  replied  Mauricet.  "Yet,  as 
I  left  him,  he  said  that  perhaps  there  was  hope  of  de- 
laying the  evil  if  the  good  woman  could  live  in  the  coun- 
try and  take  the  air  at  will,  with  the  verdure  under  her 
eyes." 

I  interrupted  him,  saying  I  would  send  her  there. 

"That  will  be  difficult,"  objected  Mauricet;  "in  liv- 
ing separately  your  expenses  will  be  almost  doubled, 
and  I  fear  that  the  cords  of  your  purse  are  not  as  long 
as  your  good  wishes." 

But  the  uncertain  hope  given  by  the  doctor  preoccu- 
pied me  above  all.  I  sought  with  Mauricet  some  way 
of  trying  this  last  possibility.  I  finally  recalled  a  coun- 
trywoman, Mother  Riviou,  living  near  Lonjumeau,  with 
whom  Madeleine  could  find,  perhaps,  without  much  ex- 
pense, the  life  and  the  care  which  she  needed.  I  wrote 
her  and  received  the  response  which  we  desired. 

It  remained  to  make  the  invalid  herself  consent.  For 
this  it  was  necessary  for  Mauricet  to  support  my  prayers 
with  all  his  eloquence.  The  dear  woman  regarded  her 
sojourn  in  the  country  as  an  exile;  she  wished  to  think 

[  202  ] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

about  it.     At  last,  however,  she  yielded,  and  I  went  my- 
self to  take  her. 

Mother  Riviou  received  us  as  old  acquaintances. 
Never  a  braver  woman  had  eaten  the  bread  of  the  good 
God.     She  comprehended  at  once  the  character  of  her 
new  boarder  and  promised  me  to  make  her  contented. 

"We  pass  so  much  of  our  life  in  the  fields,"  she  said 
to  me,  "that  the  house  shall  belong  to  your  mother;  she 
will  be  able  to  guide  herself  as  one  leads  his  donkey  by 
bridle  and  halter.  We  have  too  much  to  do  to  quarrel 
with  any  one's  fancies;  here  each  one  loves  his  repose; 
what  one  does  disturbs  no  one  else.  In  a  month  I  shall 
have  a  young  girl  who  will  keep  the  good  woman  com- 
pany and  aid  her  in  the  housekeeping.  She  is  a  true 
shepherd 's-dog,  who  shall  obey  your  mother's  every 
motion  and  look ;  so  that  she  cannot  help  being  pleased 
among  us  if  the  evil  one  doesn't  interfere."  I  left,  com- 
pletely reassured. 

However,  the  absence  of  my  mother  changed  every- 
thing for  me.  Now  I  was  alone,  obliged  to  eat  at  the 
wine-seller's  and  to  lodge  with  others.  Not  having  the 
habits  of  the  other  journeymen,  I  hardly  knew  what  to 
do  with  my  Sundays  and  evenings.  Mauricet  noticed 
that  I  appeared  sad. 

"Take  care,"  he  said  to  me;  "it  is  possible  to  get  good 
out  of  all  situations.  I  have  been  through  the  experi- 
ence, my  boy,  and  I  know  what  it  is  to  camp  in  this  way. 
At  the  beginning  one  is  perplexed,  then  wearied.  One 
would  like  better  to  lie  on  straw,  than  between  sheets 
with  everybody,  but  it  is  an  apprenticeship.  Look  out 
that  you  do  not  fall  into  evil,  abandoned  to  yourself  and 

[203] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

obliged  to  look  out  for  your  own  interests.  Living  al- 
ways with  a  mother,  one  is  never  weaned.  When  we 
are  little  and  the  good  God  gives  them  to  us  he  does  us 
a  favor;  but  when  we  are  become  men  and  are  separ- 
ated from  them  for  a  time  he  also  renders  us  a  service. 
If  Madeleine  had  not  gone  you  would  never  have  known 
how  to  sew  on  your  suspender  buttons." 

I  felt  the  truth  of  what  he  said ;  but  I  found  this  new 
apprenticeship  quite  as  hard  as  that  to  which  I  had  sub- 
mitted for  a  trade.  I  began  to  comprehend  that  it  was 
more  difficult  to  be  a  man  than  to  become  a  workman. 

The  chamber  where  I  lodged  had  a  dozen  beds,  oc- 
cupied by  the  journeymen  belonging  to  the  different 
building  trades,  such  as  masons,  carpenters,  painters, 
and  locksmiths.  Among  them  was  a  native  of  Auvergne 
already  upon  the  downhill  side  of  life,  whom  they 
called  Marcotte,  and  who  had  formerly  worked  in  our 
stone-yard.  He  was  a  quiet  man,  always  at  work  with- 
out being  a  great  workman,  and  he  spoke  only  when 
he  was  obliged  to.  Marcotte  lived  on  nuts  and  radishes, 
according  to  the  season,  and  sent  all  his  wages  to  the 
country  to  buy  land.  He  already  owned  ten  acres,  and 
waited  until  he  could  make  them  twelve  to  retire  upon 
his  domain.  Then  he  would  build  himseU  a  house, 
keep  two  cows  and  a  horse,  and  be  a  farmer. 

This  project,  followed  from  the  age  of  twelve  years, 
was  almost  accomplished;  a  few  months  more  and  he 
would  reach  his  goal.  We  sometimes  joked  the  old 
man,  whom  they  called  ''the  proprietor,"  but  mocker- 
ies glided  from  him  like  rain  from  a  roof.  Wrapped  up 
in  his  idea,  everything  else  was  for  him  only  noise.     It 

[204] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

was  in  seeing  him  that  I  reflected  for  the  first  time  upon 
the  strength  that  lay  in  an  active,  resolute  will.  Before 
this  example  I  had  not  known  what  the  perseverance  of 
the  most  feeble  can  accomplish  against  the  strongest 
obstacle. 

The  neighbor  of  old  man  Marcotte,  in  the  chamber, 
had  not  learned  this  lesson.  He  was  a  journeyman 
locksmith,  young  and  skilful,  but  who  only  worked 
when  he  wished,  amused  himself  at  will,  and  never  re- 
mained in  a  shop  longer  than  one  month,  "for  fear  of 
being  taken  for  moss,"  as  he  said.  Everything  which 
inconvenienced  him  he  treated  as  a  superstition.  If 
one  spoke  of  regularity  in  work,  superstition!  of  honesty 
toward  others,  superstition!  of  kindness  toward  com- 
rades, superstition!  of  duty  to  his  relatives,  superstition! 
Faroumont  declared  loudly  that  each  one  lived  for  him- 
self and  ought  to  regard  other  men  as  excellent  game  to 
fry  when  one  can  catch  it.  They  laughed  at  his  ideas, 
but  there  were  rumors  on  his  account  which  pointed  to 
the  police-court,  and  the  good  workmen  held  themselves 
aloof  from  him. 

For  my  part  I  avoided  him  as  much  as  possible,  less 
by  reason  than  repugnance.  From  the  first  day  he  had 
called  me  "the  rose  girl"  in  sneering  at  some  scruples 
which  I  had  let  him  see;  and  I  had  responded  to  the 
nickname  by  calling  him  "the  convict,"  in  allusion  to 
the  galleys,  where  his  principles,  it  seemed  to  me,  would 
lead  him.  The  two  names  were  accepted  by  the  lodgers. 
Although  Faroumont  had  appeared  to  take  the  thing 
in  a  laughing  way  he  cherished  ill-will  toward  me  and 
endeavored  many  times  to  seek  a  quarrel,  knowing  well 

[205] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

that  I  was  not  strong  enough  to  resist  him;  but  I  con- 
ducted myself  with  such  prudence  as  to  thwart  his  in- 
tentions. Mauricet,  witnessing  one  of  his  attempts, 
encouraged  me  to  persist. 

"Distrust  him  as  you  would  the  devil,"  he  said  to 
me,  seriously.  "You  know  that  I  am  not  a  child,  and 
that  I  have  coped  with  some  solid  fellows,  but  I  should 
better  like  a  sickness  of  six  months  than  to  have  a 
quarrel  with  this  one." 

I  thought  the  same.  The  intelligence  and  the  wick- 
edness of  Faroumont  rendered  his  strength  truly  for- 
midable; for  one  of  the  calamities  of  our  condition — of 
us  workers  at  the  trades — is  the  blind  respect  which  we 
have  for  brute  force.  By  a  sort  of  point  of  honor  the 
workman  is  reduced  to  personal  means  of  defense;  he 
draws  glory  from  not  seeking  it  outside,  so  that  he  who 
can  triumph  over  each  one,  individually,  finds  himself 
in  the  way  of  tyrannizing  over  everybody.  If  the  race 
of  duelists  with  swords  has  disappeared  in  the  other 
classes,  that  of  duelists  with  fists  continues  as  numerous 
as  ever  among  us.  How  often  have  I  seen  these  fero- 
cious scamps  who  have  crippled  brave  workmen,  or 
even  made  widows,  and  whose  villany  gave  them  a  cer- 
tain consideration!  No  one  dared  show  his  scorn  for 
fear  of  increasing  the  list  of  the  victims.  Everybody 
said,  "  We  must  take  care ;  he  is  a  wicked  rascal ! "  And 
they  held  him  in  regard.  Yet  what  could  he  have  done 
against  all?  Since  all  are  in  accord  in  judging  him, 
how  comes  it  about  that  they  do  not  agree  to  execute 
judgment  ?  Would  it  then  be  so  difficult  for  the  honest 
workmen  to  unite  against  these  furious  beasts  to  chase 

[206] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

them  from  their  places?  But  we  still  have  in  one  re- 
spect the  idea  of  savages;  like  them  we  take  the  spirit 
of  brutality  and  of  battle  for  courage,  and  we  make  of 
that  a  virtue  which  redeems  all  its  vices! 

The  companionship  of  the  lodging-house  had  made 
me  as  intimate  with  old  man  Marcotte  as  the  difference 
in  age  and  tastes  would  permit.  He  confided  to  me  his 
project  of  soon  retiring  to  the  country;  he  only  waited 
the  opportunity  for  completing  the  purchase  of  his  farm. 

Two  or  three  days  after  this  confidence  he  entered 
later  than  his  custom;  a  part  of  our  companions  were 
already  in  bed.  I  had  sat  up  to  write  to  Lonjumeau, 
and  I  was  on  the  point  of  putting  out  my  candle,  when 
I  heard  the  old  man  climbing  the  stairs  and  singing. 
He  opened  the  door  with  a  noisy  assurance  which  as- 
tonished me.  Contrary  to  all  his  habits,  he  talked  in  a 
loud  voice,  his  eyes  glistened  and  his  hat  had  a  swag- 
gering tip  over  one  ear.  At  the  first  look  I  compre- 
hended that  "the  proprietor"  had  departed  from  his 
habitual  sobriety.  The  wine  rendered  him  talkative, 
and  he  seated  himself  upon  the  edge  of  his  bed  to  re- 
late to  me  the  story  of  the  evening.  He  had  just  left 
the  carrier  who  executed  the  commissions  from  the 
country.  He  had  informed  him  that  the  piece  of  land, 
long  time  coveted  to  complete  his  farm,  was  finally  for 
sale ;  the  notary  only  waited  for  his  money. 

"Have  you  the  sum?"  I  asked. 

"As  you  say,  my  boy,"  replied  Marcotte,  lowering  his 
voice  and  with  a  mysterious  laugh;  "pounds  and  frac- 
tions, all  is  ready." 

He  looked  around  him  to  assure  himself  that  every- 
[207] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

body  slept;  then,  burying  his  arm  up  to  the  shoulder  in 
his  mattress,  he  drew  forth  a  bag  which  he  showed  me 
with  a  proud  expression. 

"See,  here  it  is,"  he  said  to  me.  "There  is  here  a 
fine  bit  of  land  and  wherewithal  to  build  a  dog-kennel." 

He  had  untwisted  the  cord  which  bound  the  cloth 
bag  and  plunged  his  hand  within  to  touch  the  pieces; 
but  at  the  noise  of  the  clinking  he  trembled,  glanced 
around,  made  a  sign  to  me  to  say  nothing,  and,  closing 
the  sack,  hid  it  under  his  bolster.  He  was  soon  in  bed 
and  asleep. 

I  undressed  to  do  the  same ;  but  at  the  moment  of  ex- 
tinguishing the  candle  I  turned  toward  the  bed  of  Far- 
oumont;  the  journeyman  locksmith  had  his  eyes  wide 
open.  He  closed  them  quickly  under  my  look.  I 
thought  no  more  about  it  and  went  to  bed. 

I  cannot  say  what  troubled  my  sleep  in  the  midst  of 
the  night;  I  awoke  with  a  start.  The  moon  shone 
through  the  curtainless  windows  and  threw  a  very  clear 
light  from  our  side.  I  found  myself  facing  the  bed  of 
"the  convict;"  it  was  empty!  I  raised  myself  upon 
my  shoulder  to  see  better.  Doubt  was  impossible; 
Faroumont  had  got  up!  At  the  same  moment  I  heard 
the  creaking  of  a  floor-board  at  my  right;  I  turned  my 
head.  A  shadow  suddenly  dropped  and  had  the  ap- 
pearance of  hiding  itself  under  the  bed  of  Father  Mar- 
cotte.  I  rubbed  my  eyes  to  assure  myself  that  I  was 
not  dreaming,  and  I  looked  again.  Nothing  could  be 
seen;  all  had  become  silent.  I  lay  down,  keeping  my 
eyes  half  open.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed  and  my 
eyelids  began  to  close  for  good,  when  a  new  creaking 

[208] 


A  JOURNAYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

of  the  boards  made  me  open  them.  I  only  had  time  to 
see  Faroumont  get  into  bed  and  draw  the  clothes  over 
him.  No  suspicions  came  to  me  at  the  moment,  and 
I  went  to  sleep. 

Exclamations,  mingled  with  tears  and  groans,  rudely 
interrupted  my  sleep.  I  jumped  up  with  a  bound ;  the 
day  began  to  break,  and  I  perceived  the  Auvergnat  tear- 
ing his  hair  before  his  tumbled  bed.  All  the  chamber 
companions  were  sitting  up  in  bed. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  demanded  many  voices. 

"Some  one  has  stolen  his  money!"  others  res- 
ponded. 

"Yes,  stolen  this  night!"  repeated  Marcotte,  with  a 
despair  which  rendered  him  foolish;  "yesterday  it  was 
there.  I  touched  it.  I  had  it  under  my  head  when  I 
went  to  sleep.    The  robber  who  took  it  is  here!" 

A  sudden  recollection  enlightened  me.  I  turned 
toward  "the  convict;"  he  was  the  only  one  who  had 
the  appearance  of  sleeping  in  the  midst  of  all  this  tumult. 
I  quickly  considered  my  position.  I  was  probably  the 
only  one  who  had  knowledge  of  the  theft.  If  I  kept 
silence  the  Auvergnat  would  lose  the  sum  laboriously 
saved  and  which  would  realize  the  hopes  pursued  during 
forty  years.  If  I  spoke,  on  the  contrary,  I  could  force 
"the  convict"  to  a  restitution,  but  I  should  expose  my- 
self to  his  vengeance!  In  spite  of  the  danger  of  the 
choice  my  deliberation  was  short.  I  extended  my  hand 
toward  the  Auvergnat  and  drew  him  toward  me. 

"Calm  yourself,  Father  Marcotte,"  I  cried;  "your 
money  is  not  lost." 

"What  is  that  you  say?"  cried  the  old  workman, 
14  [ 209 1 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

whose  face  had  a  frenzied  look.  "You  know  where  the 
bag  is!    Wretch,  is  it  you  who  have  taken  it  ? " 

"Come,  you  are  a  fool!  "  I  angrily  said  to  him. 

"Where  is  it,  then?  where  is  it?"  he  began  to  cry, 
looking  at  me. 

I  turned  toward  Faroumont. 

"See  here,  'Convict,'  the  laugh  has  gone  far  enough; 
your  joke  will  give  'the  proprietor'  the  jaundice.  Give 
him  back  his  money,  quickly." 

Although  he  had  his  eyes  shut,  his  face  changed  color, 
which  proved  to  me  that  he  had  heard.  Marcotte 
threw  himself  upon  him,  like  a  dog  who  shakes  his  prey, 
to  reclaim  his  coins.  Faroumont  played  well  enough 
the  man  who  awakes,  and  asked  what  they  wanted ;  but 
the  cries  of  the  Auvergnat  made  him  understand  too 
quickly  to  give  him  time  to  prepare  any  evasion.  I  in- 
sisted with  resolution,  representing  the  taking  of  the  bag 
as  a  bad  joke  played  upon  Father  Marcotte  with  the  in- 
tention of  disturbing  him.  "The  convict"  was  obliged 
to  give  back  the  money,  repeating  that  he  had  wished 
to  play  a  trick ;  yet  he  read  upon  all  faces  without  trou- 
ble that  they  knew  how  to  take  him.  Every  one  hastily 
dressed  and  left  without  speaking.  He  alone  affected 
not  to  hurry,  and  made  his  toilet  whistling.  But  when 
I  passed  before  his  bed  he  cast  at  me  a  look  of  malig- 
nant rage  which  made  me  tremble  from  head  to  foot. 
Henceforth,  I  was  sure  of  having  a  deadly  enemy. 


[210) 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   ENEMY   STRIKES 

|NE  day  Mauricet  said  to  me,  "I  have 
near  Berny  a  debtor  who  failed  last 
year,  but  who  has  come  to  the  surface 
again.  I  must  go  and  assure  myself 
of  the  phenomenon  and  fish  out,  if 
possible,  my  hundred  crowns.  Take 
the  wagon  with  me  Saturday  evening. 
You  can  go  as  far  as  Lonjumeau  to  see 
Madeleine,  and  I  will  rejoin  you  the  next  day  at  the 
Bois  Riant." 

The  thing  was  agreed.  I  had  only  visited  my  mother 
twice  since  her  departure,  and  the  last  time  I  had  found 
her  almost  completely  blind,  otherwise  better  than  ever 
and  in  fine  spirits.  But  this  was  three  months  ago,  and 
work  had  since  always  kept  me  at  the  stone-yard. 

When  I  reached  Lonjumeau  the  day  was  drawing  to 
its  close.  I  took  the  road  which  led  to  the  house  of 
Mother  Riviou;  but  they  had  cut  the  trees,  built  in- 
closures,  and  I  no  more  recognized  the  way.  After 
having  gone  astray  in  two  or  three  footpaths  I  looked 
around  me  for  some  one  who  could  set  me  in  the  right 
direction.  The  nearest  house  was  quite  distant,  and 
I  did  not  notice  at  first  that,  for  the  moment,  the  fields 
were  deserted.     Suddenly  I  heard  some  one  singing. 

[211] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

I  recognized  the  refrain  of  an  old  roundel  which  in  my 
child  hood  I  had  often  heard  my  mother  sing.  I  stopped, 
surprised  and  pleased.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  heard 
this  air  for  fifteen  years.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had 
become  a  child  again  and  that  I  heard  Madeleine  re- 
stored to  youth.  In  fact,  although  the  voice  was  strong 
and  fresh,  it  recalled  that  of  my  mother.  There  was 
the  same  manner  of  throwing  the  sounds  to  the  wind 
with  a  gentleness  tinged  a  little  with  sadness,  as  I  have 
since  heard  the  shepherdesses  of  Burgundy  and  Cham- 
pagne. I  approached  the  singer,  who  was  busy  taking 
down  white  linen  from  a  clothes-line.  I  found  a  girl 
with  pleasing  countenance  who  looked  me  full  in  the 
face  when  I  asked  the  road  to  the  Bois  Riant,  and  who 
then  began  laughing. 

"I  will  wager  that  you  are  Madeleine's  son,"  she  said 
to  me. 

I  looked  at  her  in  my  turn,  laughing. 

"And  I  will  wager  that  you  are  the  young  girl  that 
Mother  Riviou  expected,"  I  responded. 

''They  call  you  Peter  Henry?" 

"And  you  Genevieve?" 

"Well,  then,  here  is  an  unexpected  meeting." 

"As  if  we  recognized  each  other  without  ever  having 
seen  one  another!" 

We  broke  again  into  laughter,  and  the  explanations 
began. 

I  learned  that  my  mother  had  completely  lost  her 
sight,  but  was  unwilling  to  admit  it.  For  the  rest  Gene- 
vieve declared  to  me  that  she  was  braver  than  all  the 
young  people  in  the  house  and  always  sang  like  a  bird. 

[212] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

"Did  she  teach  you  the  refrain  which  you  have  just 
sung?"  I  asked. 

"Ah,  you  have  heard  me?"  she  repHed.  "Yes,  yes; 
the  good  Madeleine  taught  me  all  her  old  songs.  She 
said  that  they  would  help  me  to  lull  my  children  or  those 
of  others." 

While  talking  she  hastened  to  gather  her  linen.  I 
aided  her  in  making  a  bundle,  which  I  took  upon  my 
shoulder. 

"Well,  then,  so  I  have  a  servant!"  she  said,  gayly. 

And,  as  I  told  her  that  it  w^as  right  for  the  son  to  re- 
pay that  which  she  did  for  the  mother,  she  began  to 
speak  to  me  of  Madeleine  with  so  much  friendship  that 
when  we  reached  the  Bois  Riant  I  had  already  declared 
my  obligation  to  her  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

Mother,  who  was  at  the  door,  recognized  my  voice, 
and  did  not  omit  to  say  that  she  had  seen  me.  Since 
the  darkness  of  night  had  shut  her  in,  all  her  pride  lay 
in  not  appearing  blind.  Genevieve  aided  her  without 
having  the  appearance  of  it.  She  had  surrounded  the 
house,  outside  and  in,  with  a  thick  cord  which  formed 
a  leading-string  and  directed  the  blind  one.  A  knot 
served  to  inform  her  when  she  approached  a  door,  a 
piece  of  furniture,  or  a  step.  A  rattle,  shaken  by  the 
wind,  indicated  to  her  the  location  of  the  well.  Recog- 
nizing signs  had  likewise  been  placed  in  the  garden- 
paths.  Thanks  to  Genevifeve,  in  short,  Bois  Riant  was 
a  veritable  topographical  chart  which  one  could  read 
by  feeling  the  way.  The  dear  woman  was  always  mov- 
ing about,  found  everything  because  they  had  put  every- 
thing under  her  hand,  and  boasted  of  it  each  time  as  if 

[213] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

it  were  a  proof  of  her  clear  sight.  Everybody  in  the 
house  respected  her  error  and  felt  an  innocent  pleasure 
in  keeping  up  the  deception.  She  was  like  a  spoiled 
child  there,  who  made  all  smile  and  appeared  welcome. 

Mauricet,  who  had  rejoined  me  according  to  his 
promise,  understood  immediately  the  position  which 
Madeleine  held  by  the  kindness  of  her  hostess. 

"You  have  not  always  had  your  due  in  comfort  and 
happiness,"  he  said  to  her,  "but  it  seems  to  me  that 
now  the  arrears  are  being  made  up  to  you." 

"The  country  is  certainly  agreeable,"  replied  the 
good  woman,  who  did  not  like  to  avow  too  loudly  her 
contentment. 

"Yes,"  replied  Mauricet;  "but  these  are  nice  people 
who  make  the  country  so  pleasant,  and  you  have  fal- 
len here  upon  a  colony  of  Christians  of  a  kind  not  too 
common." 

"I  do  not  complain,"  observed  Madeleine. 

"And  you  are  right,"  continued  the  master-mason. 
"These  good  hearts  have  made  up  to  you  that  which 
chance  has  taken  away.  That  is  why  I  advise  you  to 
thank  the  ailment  which  has  brought  you  so  many  ser- 
vants and  friends.    If  you  still  had  your  eyes ' ' 

"What!  what!  my  eyes!"  impatiently  interrupted 
the  old  mother.  "Do  you  imagine,  by  chance,  that  I 
am  blind?" 

"It  is  true — you  are  cured,"  replied  Mauricet, 
smiling. 

"And  the  proof  is  that  I  see  you,"  continued  Made- 
leine, who  heard  the  noise  of  the  forks.  "You  are  at 
table  with  Peter  Henry.    Ah,  ah!  just  now  you  have 

[214] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

asked  for  bread,  and  you  have  cut  it.  Ah,  ah,  ah!  there 
is  nothing  which  escapes  me,  and  there  are  still  more 
than  one  with  the  eyes  of  fifteen  years  who  could  not  do 
that  which  I  do  here." 

Mother  Riviou  came  to  the  support  of  what  Made- 
leine said  by  reporting  all  that  she  left  to  her  care  in  the 
house.  The  excellent  woman  had  comprehended  that 
for  the  infirm  person  who  still  retains  courage  the  hard- 
est trial  is  the  feeling  of  uselessness.  Genevieve  out- 
did her  mistress.  When  we  were  on  the  way  back 
Mauricet  remarked  to  me  this  good  understanding  of 
all  the  family  to  make  Madeleine  contented. 

"They  say,  though,  that  the  world  is  wicked,"  he 
added,  with  warmth;  "that  the  good  people  have  be- 
come, like  white  blackbirds,  impossible  to  find ;  but  those 
who  say  so,  you  see,  do  not  seek  for  them,  and,  more 
often,  do  not  care  to.  For  my  part,  I  have  never  passed 
a  day  without  receiving  from  some  one  a  good  word  or 
a  good  service.  Unhappily,  there  are  people  who  only 
make  account  of  the  evil  done  them  and  who  receive  the 
good  as  a  delayed  payment.  It  is  almost  always  be- 
cause one  is  too  content  with  himself  that  he  is  discon- 
tented with  everybody  else." 

Some  months  passed  without  anything  special  hap- 
pening. I  made  many  journeys  to  the  Bois  Riant,  and 
Genevieve  often  brought  me  news  of  the  old  mother. 
The  excellent  girl  came  to  Paris  as  often  as  she  could 
to  see  her  nephew  Robert,  placed  by  her  in  apprentice- 
ship. Robert  was  then  seventeen  years  old,  and  worked 
in  a  shop  where  imitation  jewelry  was  made,  but  with 
the  airs  of  the  son  of  a  well-to-do  family.    His  master, 

[215] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

whom  I  went  to  see  one  day  on  behalf  of  Genevieve,  de- 
clared to  me  that  he  would  never  become  more  than  a 
bungler  who  makes  threepenny  trash. 

"He  wishes  to  be  a  perfumed  fop,"  he  said  to  me; 
"  but  he  has  not  the  heart  nor  the  hands  to  work." 

In  truth,  Monsieur  Robert  resembled  rather  a  sena- 
tor's son  than  a  jeweler's  apprentice.  Genevieve  gave 
him  her  last  sou,  and  when  they  blamed  her  she  always 
told  how  her  brother  had  recommended  the  child  to  her 
on  his  deathbed,  how  she  had  promised  to  be  everything 
to  him,  and  then,  when  the  great  tears  came  into  her 
eyes  and  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  no  one  had  the  heart 
to  say  anything  more.  M.  Robert  knew  her  weakness 
and  did  not  fail  to  abuse  it.  He  had  a  pretty  little  pink 
face,  the  white  hands  and  soft  voice  of  a  young  girl. 
One  would  have  said  that  he  was  a  lamb  to  be  led  with 
a  ribbon;  but  in  reality  nothing  could  turn  him,  against 
his  will,  and  a  mad  dog  had  been  more  easy  to  lead. 
I  afterward  came  to  know  this  to  my  great  damage. 
For  the  time  our  intercourse  was  limited  to  short  con- 
versations. It  appeared  to  me  that  the  little  nephew  was 
not  enchanted  with  the  acquaintance  of  his  aunt.  In- 
deed, our  friendships  and  our  occupations  were  far  re- 
moved from  each  other.  M.  Robert  sang  romantic 
songs,  made  the  rounds  of  the  restaurants,  and  fre- 
quented the  balls  at  night. 

As  for  me,  I  lived  by  myself  more  than  ever.  The 
affair  with  Faroumont  had  intensified  my  distaste  for 
the  lodging-house,  and  I  had  rented  a  little  room  under 
the  roofs.  A  chair,  a  trunk,  a  cot-bed  formed  all  my 
movables;  but  at  least  I  was  alone.    The  space  com- 

[216] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

prised  between  the  four  walls  belonged  only  to  me. 
They  came  not,  as  in  the  lodging-house,  to  breathe  my 
air,  trouble  my  quiet,  interrupt  my  song  or  my  sleep. 
I  was  master  of  that  which  surrounded  me,  and  that  is 
the  only  means  of  being  master  of  one's  self.  This, 
at  first,  appeared  to  me  so  good  that  I  only  thought  of 
enjoying  it.  I  was  like  a  shivering  man  who,  once  bur- 
ied in  the  bedclothes,  is  loath  to  leave  them.  I  doted 
upon  my  new  liberty,  and  I  no  more  quitted  my  man- 
sard after  work-hours.  Mauricet  complained  two  or 
three  times  of  seeing  me  no  more. 

"You  are  getting  in  the  habit  of  Hving  on  the  sly," 
he  said  to  me.  "  In  the  world,  as  in  the  anny,  you  see, 
it  is  good  to  be  elbowed  a  little  by  your  neighbor.  You 
are  too  young  to  turn  snail  and  withdraw  yourself  into 
a  shell.  Come  and  see  your  friends.  It  is  healthy  for 
the  heart  to  take  the  air." 

I  had  responded  nothing;  only  I  continued  to  cling  to 
my  ways.  I  might  have  been  able  to  utilize  this  kind 
of  retreat  by  resuming  my  interrupted  studies;  but  no 
one  urged  me,  and  I  did  not  feel  the  taste  for  it.  I  can 
hardly  say  what  passed  within  me.  I  was  like  one  be- 
numbed in  my  supineness.  I  rested  entire  hours  with- 
out thinking  precisely  of  anything,  but  going  from  one 
thing  to  another  like  a  man  who  strolls  without  aim. 
I  had  need  of  a  shaking  to  draw  me  out  from  this  wak- 
ing sleep.  The  malice  of  Faroumont  prepared  one  for 
me  upon  which  I  had  not  counted. 

We  had  not  seen  each  other  for  many  months,  when 
I  encountered  him  at  a  building  we  were  completing  in 
the  Rue  du  Cherche  Midi.    He  came  to  place  the  great 

[217] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

irons  of  the  timber-work.  In  recognizing  me  he  had 
interrupted  his  work  with  a  wicked  laugh. 

"Well,  then,  cursed  dog,  so  you  are  botching  here!" 
he  demanded,  with  his  usual  insolence. 

I  responded  briefly  in  mounting  a  window,  cut  through 
as  an  afterthought,  which  I  had  come  to  finish. 

"Ah!  the  scaffold  is  for  you!"  he  said,  and  his  glance 
turned  toward  the  plank  which  hung  from  the  height  of 
the  gable.  I  went  below  and  left  my  vest  and  lunch- 
basket  ;  then  I  climbed  toward  the  new  window.  The 
scaffold  was  strongly  suspended  by  two  ropes  that  I  had 
myself  attached  to  the  timbering;  but  hardly  had  I 
placed  my  feet  upon  it  when  the  evil  face  of  "the  con- 
vict" showed  itself  above  between  the  joists;  at  the 
same  instant  a  cord  was  unknotted,  the  plank  swung, 
and  I  was  thrown  from  a  height  of  forty  feet  upon  the 
rubbish  below. 

I  cannot  say  how  long  a  time  I  remained  senseless; 
the  pain  brought  me  to  consciousness  at  the  moment 
they  wished  to  move  me.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the 
earth  on  which  I  was  extended  made  a  part  of  myself, 
and  that  they  could  not  take  me  away  from  it  without 
tearing  me.  Some  comrades  went  to  look  for  a  doctor 
and  a  stretcher,  while  the  others,  among  whom  was 
Faroumont,  continued  to  surround  me.  I  suffered 
cruelly,  but  it  seemed  that  my  wounds  were  not  mortal. 

The  doctor,  who  arrived  soon  after,  said  nothing. 
He  gave  me  some  preliminary  attentions  and  had  me 
put  upon  the  stretcher  and  carried  to  the  hospital. 

I  recall  only  confusedly  what  passed  for  some  days. 
My  first  distinct  recollection  was  the  visit  of  Mauricet. 

[218] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

He  informed  me  that  I  had  lain  there  a  week ;  that  they 
had  despaired  of  my  life,  and  that  now  the  head  doctor 
would  answer  for  it.  The  brave  man  was  rejoiced  at 
the  news,  and  yet  a  little  angry  at  me.  When  he  had 
asked  the  cause  of  the  accident  they  had  told  him  of  a 
cord  badly  tied,  and  he  reproached  me  energetically 
for  my  negligence.  I  justified  myself  without  trouble 
by  relating  to  him  what  had  passed.  He  recoiled  and 
smote  his  hands  together. 

"Here  is  the  key  to  the  charade!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Name  the  club  and  I  would  not  doubt!  Since  'the 
convict'  was  there  one  can  wager  that  the  devil  would 
be  mixed  in  it.  Have  you  already  spoken  of  it  to  any 
one?" 

"To  no  one." 

"And  there  was  no  witness?" 
"We  were  alone  at  the  top  of  the  building." 
"Then,  hush!  Not  a  word!"  he  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment's reflection.  "Accusing  an  enemy  without  proof 
will  not  rid  you  of  him,  but  will  envenom  him.  If  you 
say  nothing  'the  convict'  will,  perhaps,  consider  your 
account  squared  and  trouble  you  no  more,  while  in  talk- 
ing about  it  you  will  oblige  him  to  begin  again.  What 
has  happened  to  you  has  happened  to  many  others  in 
our  condition.  I  myself  have  made  a  false  step  of  two 
stories  by  the  malice  of  a  companion  who  owed  me  forty 
crowns  of  which  he  hoped  thus  to  acquit  himself. 
There  were  only  we  two  who  knew  the  thing;  I  whis- 
pered not  a  word.  I  let  time  do  justice  to  the  rascal, 
and  six  months  after  two  of  his  fellows  clubbed  him  like 
a  dog  to  steal  thirty  sous  from  him." 

[219] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

I  comprehended  the  prudence  of  Mauricet's  advice, 
and  yet  I  submitted  myself  to  it  only  with  repugnance. 

My  fall  kept  me  more  than  two  months  at  the  hos- 
pital. I  was  desperate  sometimes,  the  cure  was  so  slow; 
but  I  had  a  neighbor  who  gave  me  courage. 

He  was  a  poor  old  fellow,  bent  with  suffering,  who 
called  himself,  I  believe,  Pariset.  They  only  called 
him  here  by  the  number  of  his  bed,  which  was  twelve. 
This  bed  had  already  received  him  thrice  for  three  long 
sicknesses,  and  was  thus  become  in  some  sort  his  prop- 
erty. "Number  Twelve"  was  known  by  the  doctor- 
in-chief,  the  students,  and  the  attendants.  Never  a 
gentler  creature  walked  beneath  the  heavens.  When  I 
say  walked  it  was  so  no  more,  alas!  for  the  brave  man 
that  was  only  a  recollection!  For  nearly  two  years  he 
had  lost  almost  completely  the  use  of  his  limbs.  Still, 
in  the  mean  time  he  lived  by  copying  law-papers.  He 
was  not  much  disconcerted,  he  said,  and  he  had  con- 
tinued to  draw  up  his  lists  on  the  stamped  paper.  A 
little  later  the  paralysis  attacked  the  right  arm ;  he  then 
practised  writing  with  his  left  hand ;  but  the  evil  grew ; 
it  was  necessary  to  carry  him  to  the  hospital,  where  he 
had  had  the  happiness  of  finding  his  own  bed  again 
free;  and  this  had  almost  consoled  him. 

"Bad  luck  is  only  for  a  time,"  he  said  on  this  occa- 
sion; "every  day  has  a  to-morrow." 

Old  Number  Twelve  had  taken  possession  of  his  bed 
with  emotion.  The  hospital,  where  staying  seems  so 
hard  to  some  people,  was  for  him  a  house  of  pleasure. 
He  found  there  everything  to  his  liking.  His  admira- 
tion for  the  least  comforts  proved  what  privations  he 

[  220  ] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

had  until  then  supported.  He  went  into  ecstasies  over 
the  cleanliness  of  the  Hnen,  the  whiteness  of  the  bread 
and  the  richness  of  the  soups ;  and  I  was  no  more  as- 
tonished when  I  was  told  that  for  twenty  years  he  had 
lived  upon  army-bread,  herb  soup,  and  white  cheese. 
He  could  not  enough  praise  the  munificence  of  the  na- 
tion which  had  opened  such  retreats  for  the  sick  poor. 
Besides,  his  gratitude  did  not  stop  there.  It  embraced 
all.  To  hear  him  one  would  suppose  that  God  had  for 
him  particular  favor;  men  showed  themselves  full  of 
kindness,  and  things  always  turned  to  his  advantage. 
As  the  doctor  said,  Number  Twelve  had  ''the  fatuity  of 
happiness;"  but  this  fatuity  only  gave  us  esteem  for  the 
brave  man  and  encouragement  for  ourselves. 

I  believe  I  see  him  yet,  sitting  up  in  bed  with  his  Uttle 
nightcap  of  black  silk,  his  spectacles,  and  the  old 
volume  of  verse  which  he  ceased  not  to  read.  His  bed 
received  in  the  morning  the  first  rays  of  the  sun,  and  he 
never  saw  them  without  rejoicing  and  thanking  God. 
To  see  his  gratitude  one  would  have  said  that  the  sun 
arose  especially  for  him.  He  kept  regularly  informed 
of  the  progress  of  my  recovery,  and  always  found 
something  to  say  to  give  me  patience.  Of  that  he  was 
himself  a  living  example  which  said  more  than  words. 
When  I  saw  this  poor  body  without  movement,  those 
distorted  limbs,  and  above  that  smiling  face,  I  had 
neither  the  courage  to  be  impatient  nor  to  complain. 

"It  is  a  bad  moment  to  pass,"  he  said  at  each  crisis; 
"the  solace  will  soon  come;  every  day  has  a  to-mor- 
row." 

This  was  the  thought  of  Number  Twelve,  and  he 
[221] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

returned  to  it  ceaselessly.  Mauricet,  who  in  coming  to 
see  me  came  to  know  him,  never  passed  before  his  bed 
without  saluting  him. 

"He  is  a  saint,"  he  said  to  me;  "but  he  gains  para- 
dise not  alone  for  himself,  he  makes  others  gain  it,  too. 
Such  men  ought  to  be  placed  on  the  top  of  a  column, 
to  be  seen  by  everybody.  When  one  looks  at  them  it 
makes  him  ashamed  of  being  happy,  and  that  gives  one 
the  wish  to  merit  it." 

Toward  the  end  of  my  stay  at  the  hospital  the  strength 
of  poor  Number  Twelve  diminished  rapidly.  He  lost  at 
first  all  movement,  then  his  tongue  itself  became  con- 
fused. Finally  only  the  eyes  were  left,  which  still  smiled 
at  us.  One  morning  it  appeared  to  me  that  his  eyes 
were  dimmer.  I  got  up  and  approached  to  ask  him  if 
he  wished  to  drink ;  he  made  a  movement  of  the  eyelids 
which  thanked  me,  and  at  this  moment  the  first  ray  of 
the  rising  sun  gleamed  upon  his  bed.  Then  his  eyes 
brightened,  like  a  light  which  sparkles  before  going  out ; 
he  had  the  appearance  of  saluting  this  last  gift  of  the 
good  God.  Then  I  saw  his  head  fall  back  on  one  side; 
his  brave  heart  had  ceased  to  beat,  and  there  were  no 
more  to-days  for  him;  he  had  begun  the  eternal  to- 
morrow. 


[  222  ] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  GREAT  CONTRACTOR 

N  leaving  the  hospital  I  resumed  my 
work,  but  slowly;  I  had  no  longer  as 
much  strength  as  formerly,  nor,  above 
all,  so  much  ardor.  This  long  repose 
seemed  to  have  mixed  water  with  my 
blood.  I  was,  besides,  so  well  cured 
of  my  ambition  by  the  example  of  the 
old  copyist  that  I  tranquilly  awaited 
the  bread  of  each  day  without  troubling  myself  whether 
it  should  be  black  or  white.  Mauricet  became  impa- 
tient at  my  apathy. 

"It  isn't  necessary  to  exaggerate  things,"  he  said; 
"once  the  soup  is  made,  good  children  eat  it  as  it  is;  but 
while  it  is  making  they  endeavor  to  enrich  it.  After  all, 
we  are  no  more  at  nurse !  it  is  not  for  Providence  to  cook 
our  food  for  us;  each  one  ought  to  lend  a  hand.  The 
wise  thing  for  a  fellow  who  has  his  four  members  is  not 
to  live  like  a  paralytic,  but  by  serving  himself  the  best 
he  can." 

I  did  not  argue  with  him ;  my  hands  merely  continued 
to  work,  my  heart  was  in  it  no  more.  I  should  not  have 
been  able  myself  to  say  why.  Nothing  in  this  state  dis- 
pleased me,  neither  pleased  me.  My  courage  simply 
slept.    An  opportunity  was  necessary  to  awaken  it. 

[223] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

I  went  one  day  with  Mauricet  to  the  dwelHng  of  one 
of  the  greatest  contractors  in  Paris  for  some  instruction 
asked  for  by  the  master- mason,  which,  under  his  dic- 
tation I  had  put  in  writing.  The  contractor  was  not  in 
his  office;  so  they  made  us  go  through  many  rooms  to 
join  him  in  the  garden.  There  were  everywhere  car- 
pets of  many  colors,  furniture  with  gilded  feet,  tapestry 
of  silk  and  velvet  curtains.  Never  had  I  seen  anything 
like  it;  my  eyes  opened  widely,  and  I  walked  upon  my 
tiptoes  for  fear  of  crushing  the  flowers  of  the  carpet. 
Mauricet  glanced  at  me  sidewise. 

''Well,  then,  how  do  you  find  the  house?"  he  asked, 
with  a  sly  air.  "Does  it  appear  to  you  handsome  and 
substantial  enough  ?  " 

I  replied  that  the  house  had  the  appearance  of  that 
of  a  prince. 

"Prince  of  the  trowel  and  the  square,"  responded 
my  companion.  "He  has  three  other  houses  in  Paris, 
without  speaking  of  a  country  house." 

I  said  nothing  at  the  moment;  all  this  opulence  stirred 
something  unpleasant  within  me.  In  seeing  so  much 
velvet  and  silk  I  looked  at  myself,  I  know  not  why,  and 
I  was  ashamed  to  be  so  badly  dressed.  But  in  my  shame 
there  was  discontent;  I  felt  disposed  to  hate  the  master 
of  all  these  riches  for  having  made  me  remark  my  pov- 
erty. Mauricet,  who  suspected  nothing,  continued  to 
detail  the  beauties  of  the  dwelling.  I  listened  with  im- 
patience; my  heart  beat,  the  blood  mounted  to  my  face, 
my  eyes  could  not  stop  looking,  and  the  more  I  saw  the 
nore  I  became  exasperated.     My  ambition,  which  had 

slept  for  some  time,  awakened,  but  through  envy! 

[224] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL  ^ 

We  had  halted  in  the  best  salon  while  the  domestic 
sought  his  master.  Mauricet  all  at  once  pointed  out 
to  me  an  ugly  little  portrait  hung  in  the  midst  of  large 
pictures  richly  framed.  It  represented  a  workman  in 
his  vest,  holding  in  one  hand  his  pipe  and  in  the  other 
a  compass. 

"Behold  the  gentleman,"  the  mason  said  to  me. 

"Has  he  been  a  workman,  then  ? "  I  asked. 

"Like  you  and  me,"  replied  Mauricet;  "and  you  see 
that  he  is  not  ashamed  of  it." 

I  looked  at  the  frame  of  black  wood,  then  at  the  rich 
furniture,  as  if  my  mind  sought  the  transition  from  one 
to  the  other. 

"Ah,  this  troubles  your  reason,"  resumed  the  mason, 
laughing;  "you  seek  the  ladder  which  has  been  able 
to  land  him  here  from  the  height  of  his  scaffold.  But  not 
everybody  knows  how  to  serve  himself  well,  you  see; 
in  wishing  to  take  it,  more  than  one  has  lacked  the  ad- 
vantages; it  is  necessary  to  have  wrists  and  cleverness." 

I  observed  that  above  all  it  was  necessary  to  have  the 
chance,  that  all  were  happy  or  unhappy  in  the  world, 
and  that  the  individual  counted  for  nothing  in  achieving 
success.  "For  example.  Friend  Mauricet,"  I  sharply 
added,  "why  have  you  not  a  hotel  as  well  as  he  who 
dwells  here?  Are  you  less  meritorious  or  less  brave? 
If  he  has  succeeded  better  than  you  is  it  not  all  a  stupid 
story  of  chance  ?  " 

Mauricet  fastened  his  eye  upon  me. 

"You  say  this  for  me,  but  it  is  of  yourself  that  you 
think,  sonny,"  he  slyly  replied. 

"It  is  all  the  same,"  I  said,  a  little  vexed  at  having 
15  [225] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

my  thought  divined.  "I  don't  pass  for  a  bad  workman ; 
if  it  only  sufficed  to  do  one's  duty  I  also  should  ride  in  a 
carriage." 

"And  is  it  a  manner  of  going  about  which  would  be- 
come you?"  added  my  companion,  ironically. 

''Why  not?  Everybody  likes  better  to  save  his  legs 
than  those  of  horses;  but  have  no  fear  that  I  shall  reach 
that;  it  is  down  here,  you  see,  as  formerly  with  the  noble 
families,  all  for  the  oldest,  nothing  for  the  younger  ones 
and  we  are  the  younger  ones,  we  others." 

"It  is  true,  however,"  murmured  the  master-journey- 
man, who  became  thoughtful. 

"And  there  is  nothing  to  say,"  I  continued.  "Since 
it  is  agreed  to,  it  is  just!  It  is  not  necessary  to  disturb 
the  world !  Only,  you  see,  it  makes  my  blood  boil  when 
I  look  at  the  share  of  each  one.  Whence  comes  it  that 
this  man  here  lodges  in  a  palace  while  others  perch  in 
pigeon-houses?  Why  is  it  that  these  carpets,  these 
silks,  these  velvets,  belong  to  him  rather  than  to  us  ?  " 

"Because  I  have  earned  them,"  some  one  interrupted, 
bluntly. 

I  started;  the  contractor  was  behind  us  in  broidered 
slippers  and  dressing-gown !  He  was  a  little  gray  man, 
but  with  a  strong  figure  and  a  commanding  voice. 

"Ah!  it  appears  that  you  are  a  reasoner,"  he  contin- 
ued, looking  at  me  through  half-shut  eyes.  "You  are 
jealous  of  me.  You  ask  by  what  right  my  house  be- 
longs to  me  rather  than  to  you.  Well,  then,  you  shall 
know!    Come!" 

He  had  made  a  movement  toward  an  interior  door. 
I  hesitated  to  follow  him.     He  turned  toward  me. 

[226] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

"Are  you  afraid?"  he  demanded,  in  a  tone  which 
made  me  red  to  the  eyes. 

"Let  the  gentleman  show  me  the  way,"  I  rcpHed, 
almost  impudently. 

He  conducted  us  into  an  office,  in  the  midst  of  which 
stood  a  long  table  covered  with  inkcups,  brushes,  rulers, 
and  compasses.  Upon  the  walls  hung  colored  plans 
representing  all  the  details  of  a  building.  Here  and 
there  upon  stands  might  be  seen  little  models  of  stair- 
cases, or  timber-work,  magnetic  compasses,  graphom- 
eters,  with  other  instruments,  of  the  use  of  which  I  was 
ignorant.  An  enormous  case  with  labelled  compart- 
ments occupied  the  end  of  the  room,  and  upon  a  bureau 
were  heaped  memoranda  and  estimates.  The  contrac- 
tor stopped  before  the  large  table  and  showed  me  a 
color-cup. 

"Here  is  a  plan  to  modify,"  he  said.  "They  wish 
to  narrow  the  building  by  three  metres,  but  without  di- 
minishing the  number  of  chambers,  and  it  is  necessary 
to  find  a  place  for  the  staircase.  Sit  down  and  make 
me  a  sketch  of  the  thing." 

I  looked  at  him  with  surprise,  and  observed  that  I  did 
not  know  how  to  design. 

"Then  examine  for  me  this  estimate,"  he  resumed, 
taking  a  bundle  of  papers  from  his  bureau;  "there  are 
three  hundred  and  twelve  articles  to  discuss." 

I  responded  that  I  was  not  well  enough  informed  in 
such  work  to  discuss  prices  or  to  verify  measurements. 

"You  at  least  can  tell  me,"  continued  the  contractor, 
"what  are  the  formalities  to  fulfil  for  the  three  houses 
which  I  am  going  to  build ;  you  know  the  rules  of  build- 

[227] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

ing  inspection,  the  obligations  and  rights  with  regard 
to  neighbors?" 

I  quickly  interrupted  him,  saying  that  I  was  not  a 
lawyer. 

"And  you  are  neither  a  banker,"  resumed  the  gentle- 
man; "you  are  ignorant,  without  doubt,  in  what  lan- 
guage it  is  necessary  to  draw  up  the  terms  of  payment, 
what  is  the  average  time  needful  to  sell  in,  what  inter- 
est one  ought  to  draw  from  his  capital  not  to  become 
bankrupt.  As  you  are  not  a  trader,  you  would  be  very 
much  embarrassed  in  naming  the  sources  of  the  best 
materials,  of  choosing  the  best  time  for  buying  them,  the 
most  economical  means  of  transporting  them.  As  you 
are  not  a  mechanic,  it  is  useless  for  me  to  inquire  if  the 
crane,  of  which  you  see  the  model  there,  yields  its  force 
with  the  highest  economy.  As  you  are  not  a  mathe- 
matician, you  would  vainly  attempt  to  judge  this  new 
system  of  bridge-building  which  I  am  to  apply  on  the 
lower  Seine.  Finally,  as  you  know  nothing  except  what 
a  thousand  other  journeymen  know,  you  are  only  good 
as  they  are,  to  handle  the  trowel  and  the  hammer!" 

I  was  completely  disconcerted,  and  I  twirled  my  hat 
without  responding. 

"Do  you  understand  now  why  I  dwell  in  a  great 
house  while  you  live  in  an  attic?"  resumed  the  con- 
tractor, raising  his  voice.  "It  is  because  I  have  taken 
the  trouble;  it  is  because  I  have  informed  myself  of  all 
that  which  you  have  neglected  to  know ;  it  is  because  of 
my  hard  study  and  strong  will  that  I  have  become  a 
general  while  you  remain  among  the  conscripts!  By 
what  right,  then,  do  you  demand  the  same  advantages 

[228] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

as  your  superiors?  Ought  society  not  to  recompense 
each  one  according  to  the  services  he  renders?  If  you 
wish  it  to  treat  you  like  me,  do  what  I  have  done;  scrimp 
your  bread  to  buy  books;  pass  the  day  working  and  the 
night  studying;  watch  everywhere  for  instruction  as  the 
merchant  watches  for  a  profit,  and  when  you  shall  show 
that  nothing  discourages  you,  when  you  know  things 
and  men,  then,  if  you  remain  in  your  attic,  come  and 
complain  and  I  will  listen  to  you." 

The  contractor  spoke  with  much  animation,  and  fin- 
ished by  being  a  little  angry.  Still,  I  answered  nothing, 
his  reasons  had  left  me  speechless.  Mauricet,  who  saw 
my  embarrassment,  attempted  some  words  to  justify 
me,  and  then  came  to  the  subject  of  our  visit.  The 
gentleman  examined  my  note,  asked  some  explanations, 
then  took  leave  of  us.  But  at  the  moment  I  was  passing 
the  door  he  recalled  me. 

"Remember  what  I  have  told  you,  comrade,"  he  re- 
sumed, with  familiar  good -nature,  "and  instead  of  hav- 
ing envy  try  to  have  a  little  honest  ambition.  Do  not 
lose  your  time  fuming  against  those  who  are  higher  up ; 
work,  rather,  to  spin  a  cord  to  join  them.  If  I  can  ever 
aid  you,  you  have  only  to  say  the  word  and  I  will  lend 
you  the  first  bit  of  hemp!" 

I  thanked  him  very  briefly  and  hastened  to  leave. 
When  we  were  in  the  street  Mauricet  broke  into  laugh- 
ter. 

"Well,  well!  Here  is  a  humiliation  for  a  wise  man 
like  you!"  he  exclaimed.  "Wasn't  he  proud  of  having 
nonplussed  you?" 

And  as  he  saw  that  I  made  a  movement  of  impa- 
[229] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

tience,  "Come  now,  are  you  going  to  get  angry  over 
such  a  farce  ?  "  he  added,  in  a  friendly  way,  "The  gentle- 
man has  pleaded  his  cause ;  it  is  just,  too ;  but  if  I  do  not 
keep  a  carriage  I  know  one  when  I  see  it.  A  million- 
aire, you  see,  is  made  neither  with  the  compass  nor  with 
the  drawing-pen." 

"And  with  what,  then?"  I  asked. 

"With  money!" 

I  was  this  time  of  the  opinion  of  the  master-work- 
man; but  in  spite  of  my  vexation  the  contractor's  lesson 
had  struck  home.  When  I  regained  my  coolness  I  came 
to  think  that  reason  was  altogether  on  his  side.  This 
episode  had  given  my  mind  a  wholesome  shake.  I  re- 
sumed my  former  activity.  Convinced  of  the  necessity 
of  instruction,  I  recovered  my  taste  for  study.  The 
difficulty  was  to  procure  the  means.  Although  it  was 
a  little  painful  to  return  to  the  contractor,  whose  recol- 
lection of  me  might  be  unpleasant,  I  decided  to  recall 
to  him  his  proposition  to  aid  me.  He  received  me  well, 
informed  himself  of  what  I  knew,  and  sent  me  to  a  sur- 
veyor whom  he  employed.  He  admitted  me  gratu- 
itously into  an  evening  class  to  which  some  young 
people  came  to  be  instructed  in  geometry  and  drawing. 

I  made  myself  remarked  at  first  only  for  stupidity  and 
awkwardness.  It  was  always  necessary  to  explain  to 
me  twice  what  the  others  comprehended  at  the  first 
statement;  my  hand,  used  to  lifting  stone,  pierced 
the  paper  or  crushed  the  crayons.  I  was  very  far  be- 
hind the  lowest  pupil!  Yet,  little  by  little,  by  the  force 
of  perseverance  the  distance  decreased  and  I  slowly 
reached  the  average  level. 

[230] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  mother's  last  GIFT 

life  tranquilly  passed  between  work 
at  the  stone-yard  and  that  of  the  class. 
From  time  to  time  I  went  to  see  my 
mother  at  Lonjumeau,  and  Genevieve 
brought  me  news  of  her.  For  some 
months  the  strength  of  the  blind 
woman  had  sensibly  decreased;  she 
seldom  left  her  easy-chair,  and  her 
mind  was  not  clear.  Mauricet  was  struck  by  it  as  well 
as  myself. 

"The  distaff  is  tangled,"  he  said  to  me,  with  his  cus- 
tomary curtness;  "beware  the  end  of  the  skein!" 
I  repulsed  this  sinister  prediction  with  a  sort  of  anger. 
"What!  what!"  resumed  the  master- workman,  "do 
you  think  the  thing  is  more  a  smiling  matter  to  me  than 
to  you  ?  But  the  future  is  like  men ;  it  is  always  neces- 
sary to  look  it  in  the  face.  Do  you  not  see  that  there  is 
no  benefit  in  closing  the  eyes  so  as  not  to  see  the  evil 
which  must  come  ?  It  is  beautiful  to  love  one  another, 
my  poor  child,  but  one  day  or  another  we  must  part; 
so  much  the  better  for  those  who  leave  first." 

"And  why  think  in  advance  of  these  cruel  separa- 
tions?" I  asked. 
"  Why  ?  "  repeated  Mauricet.     "  So  as  not  to  be  taken 
[231] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

by  surprise,  my  little  one;  to  strengthen  the  heart  and 
to  conduct  one's  self  like  a  man  when  the  moment 
comes!  In  life,  you  see,  the  question  is  not  to  play  at 
hide-and-seek  with  truth;  brave  people  lie  neither  to 
others  nor  to  themselves.  Besides,"  he  added,  with 
feeling,  "think  of  death;  it  is  always  wholesome! 
Whether  one  goes  or  sees  another  go,  one  wishes  to  leave 
a  good  memory  with  those  who  go  or  with  those  who  re- 
main, and  he  becomes  better.  Now  that  you  are  fore- 
warned I  think  you  will  occupy  yourself  more  with 
Madeleine,  and  that  you  will  have  a  very  pleasant  eve- 
ning after  so  wretched  a  day." 

Mauricet  spoke  truly;  his  warning  had  resulted  in 
making  me  return  oftener  to  the  farm  and  recalling  to 
me  more  constantly  my  duty.  At  each  visit  I  carried  to 
my  mother  what  I  knew  would  please  her  taste,  and 
she  thanked  me  in  embracing  me  as  she  had  never  done 
before.  Perhaps,  also,  she  felt  her  life  ebbing,  and  she 
clung  with  the  more  affection  to  those  whom  she  was 
so  soon  to  leave. 

"You  wish  to  make  me  thank  the  good  God  for  being 
old!"  she  said  to  me  at  every  new  care  I  took  of  her. 

Then  she  began  to  talk  of  her  youth,  of  the  first  years 
of  her  married  life,  of  my  childhood.  She  recalled  all 
that  I  had  done,  all  that  I  had  said  from  the  day  of  my 
birth;  it  was  for  her  the  history  of  the  world.  Gene- 
vieve listened  as  attentively  as  if  she  had  recounted  the 
life  of  Napoleon.  Always  watchful,  always  singing,  she 
brought  with  her  an  atmosphere  of  cheerfulness.  Her 
blind  mistress  scolded  her,  but  in  a  tone  which  seemed 
to  say  that  it  was  only  to  occupy  myself  with  her,  and 

[232] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

when  we  were  alone  she  would  repeat,  "She  is  the 
youngest  daughter  of  the  good  God!"  Genevieve,  who 
heard  her  sometimes,  never  appeared  to  do  so,  in  order 
to  leave  the  good  woman  the  pleasure  of  grumbling. 

However,  at  my  last  visit  she  seemed  troubled. 

"Mother  Madeleine  gets  no  better,"  she  said  to  me 
at  the  moment  of  my  departure. 

"Alas!  my  God,  I  have  seen  it!"  I  replied;  "but 
she  pretends  not  to  suffer,  and  refuses  to  see  a  doctor." 

"Perhaps  she  is  right,"  said  the  young  girl;  "that 
would  only  sadden  her." 

We  exchanged  a  sigh,  and  I  left  with  a  pang  at  my 
heart. 

The  next  day  I  was  at  a  new  building  upon  the  high- 
est scaffolding,  when  I  heard  myself  called.  I  looked 
down  and  my  heart  stopped  beating;  it  was  Genevieve. 

"How  does  mother  do?"  I  cried  to  her. 

"Badly,"  she  responded,  in  an  altered  voice. 

In  an  instant  I  had  descended. 

"She  wishes  to  see  you,"  continued  Genevieve, 
quickly;  "come  immediately;  the  doctor  said  that 
time  pressed." 

We  left  at  once.  Never  had  the  road  appeared  so 
long.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  horses  travelled  slower, 
that  the  driver  stopped  oftener.  I  should  have  liked  to 
know  the  exact  state  of  the  old  mother,  but  I  dared  not 
question  Genevieve.  We  at  last  arrived  at  Lonju- 
meau.  I  took  the  way  to  the  farm,  almost  running. 
Mother  Riviou  was  not  in  the  fields  according  to  her 
habit;  I  saw  her  at  the  door  with  an  air  of  waiting. 
This  appeared  to  me  a  bad  sign.    She  cried  out  on  see- 

[233] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

ing  me.    I  looked  at  her  in  a  way  she  comprehended,  for 
she  eagerly  said  to  me,  "Come  in;  she  asks  for  you." 

I  found  mother  very  low ;  yet  she  recognized  me  and 
extended  both  hands.  I  cannot  say  what  passed  within 
me  then ;  but  when  I  saw  her  thus,  with  leaden-colored 
features,  glassy  eyes,  and  lips  agitated  by  the  chill  of 
death,  the  recollection  of  all  that  she  had  done  for  me 
suddenly  traversed  my  mind.  The  idea  that  I  was  going 
to  lose  her  without  having  requited  so  much  kindness 
struck  me  like  a  knife.  I  uttered  a  cry  and  threw  my- 
self in  her  arms. 

"Come,  Peter,  don't  grieve."  she  said  to  me,  very 
low;  "I  die  content,  since  I  have  seen  you." 

I  felt  that  it  was  necessary  to  master  my  pain,  and  I 
seated  myself  near  the  bed  and  sought  to  persuade  her 
there  was  hope ;  but  she  would  not  listen  to  me. 

"Lose  no  time  deceiving  yourself,"  she  said  to  me, 
in  a  voice  which  grew  more  feeble;  "I  desire  to  tell  you 
my  last  wishes;  call  Genevieve." 

The  young  girl  approached;  the  dying  woman  gave 
her  the  keys  to  her  closet  and  asked  for  many  things 
which  she  designated — a  watch  which  had  belonged  to 
my  father,  her  wedding  ear-rings,  a  little  silver  goblet, 
and  some  jewelry.  She  had  them  placed  upon  the  bed, 
called  one  after  the  other  of  the  people  of  the  house,  and 
gave  something  to  each  one.  Mother  Riviou  had  the 
silver  goblet ;  she  gave  me  the  watch,  and  wished  Gen- 
evieve to  take  the  earrings.  She  then  chose  the  sheet 
in  which  they  should  lay  her  out,  told  how  she  wished 
to  be  buried,  and  asked  that  there  should  be  upon  her 
tomb  a  stone  cut  by  myself. 

[234] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

We  listened,  keeping  back  our  tears  with  great  trou- 
ble, and  promised  all  that  she  asked.  Then  the  pastor 
came.  My  heart  was  too  full;  I  went  out  to  weep  be- 
hind the  house. 

I  believe  that  I  remained  there  a  long  time,  for  when 
I  reentered  it  was  night.  The  pastor  had  gone.  I 
heard  Genevieve  respond  to  my  mother.  At  the  first 
word  I  comprehended  that  the  question  concerned  me. 
The  dying  mother,  disturbed  about  leaving  her  son 
alone  in  the  world,  had  communicated  to  the  young 
girl  a  wish  which  she  had  the  appearance  of  softly 
resisting. 

"Peter  Henry  is  too  wise  and  good-hearted  not  to 
know  what  he  wishes  to  do,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  a  little 
troubled. 

''But,  then,  why  do  you  not  wish  to  marry  him?" 
demanded  the  mother. 

"I  have  not  said  that.  Mother  Madeleine,"  re- 
sponded Genevieve. 

"Let  me  speak  to  him,  then." 

"No,"  she  quickly  continued;  "to-day  he  can  refuse 
you  nothing,  and  later  he  may  repent.  It  is  not  for  you 
to  decide;  neither  for  me,  good  mother;  he  ought  to 
choose  according  to  his  own  taste  and  will.  Whatever 
he  does  you  know  well  that  I  shall  always  be  ready  to 
serve  him." 

"Alas!"  murmured  my  mother,  plaintively,  "I 
waited  for  yet  this  joy  upon  earth." 

"And  you  shall  have  it  if  it  only  depends  upon  me," 
I  cried,  in  approaching  the  bed.  "No  one  can  fear  that 
I  shall  repent,  for  your  choice  is  my  choice." 

[235] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

There,  I  have  espoused  Genevieve,  and  I  can  say 
that  this  has  been  the  last  gift  from  her  who  brought 
me  into  the  world. 

She  died  the  next  day  when  the  clock  struck  twelve, 
holding  my  hand  and  that  of  Genevieve.  Let  God 
recompense  her  for  what  she  has  suffered,  and  make 
up  to  her  that  which  I  have  not  been  able  to  render! 
A  mother  is  too  much  a  creditor  for  her  children  ever  to 
pay  her  here  below. 


[236] 


CHAPTER  IX 

SUDDEN   MISFORTUNE 

marriage  to  Genevieve  put  an  end  to 
my  studies.  Until  then  I  had  worked 
to  become  capable;  once  at  the  head 
of  a  family  I  should  occupy  myself 
drawing  some  return  from  my  capa- 
cities. 

For  those  who  live  by  work  this  set- 
ting up  of  a  home  is  a  great  joy  and  a 
great  encouragement.  The  idea  that  one  tires  himself 
no  more  for  himself  alone  fills  the  heart  with  courage ; 
one  begins  to  think  of  the  to-morrow  when  company  may 
arrive;  in  feeling  that  henceforth  one  is  two  he  knots 
more  tightly  the  cords  of  his  scaffolding,  and  he  adds  a 
stanchion  the  more  for  safety.  Since  my  wedding-day 
I  have  had  many  cares  and  black  humors;  more  than 
one  time,  under  the  heavy  charge  of  a  family,  I  have 
felt  the  suspenders  pulling  on  my  shoulders;  but  when 
I  have  returned  to  my  better  self  I  have  always  found 
that  marriage  is  a  holy  and  brave  thing,  the  best  help 
against  the  bad  strokes  of  fate,  and  altogether  the  true 
strength  of  men  of  good-will. 

Therefore  it  is  wise  to  know  that  your  choice  is  well 
placed.  Before  calling  thus  into  your  own  life  another 
self,  who  will  become  your  living  shadow,  it  is  good  to 

[237] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

look  at  her  from  the  head  as  well  as  from  the  heart, 
to  assure  yourself  that  you  will  have  near  you  in  the 
house  a  second  conscience  and  not  a  tempter.  If  we 
hesitate  to  take  an  associate  in  business  for  fear  that  he 
may  take  one's  credit  and  money,  how  much  more  for 
a  partner  of  existence,  who  can  take  from  one  his  repose 
and  honor?  To  tell  the  truth,  the  women  who  thus 
turn  against  one  are  very  few;  almost  all  bring  into  the 
home  at  least  as  much  of  uprightness,  good-conduct, 
and  devotion  as  the  husband.  They  may  have  more 
little  faults,  but  they  have  fewer  vices.  It  is  rare  to  find 
them  hardened  in  evil;  yet  if  this  comes  about  it  is 
oftener  than  not  by  our  fault. 

Those  who  live  above  us  in  the  ease  which  comes  of 
inheritance,  or  who  gain  their  living  without  much 
trouble,  do  not  know  all  the  worth  of  the  brave  wife  of 
a  workman.  She  is  not  only  the  manager  of  his  bread, 
she  is  the  manager  of  his  courage  and  of  his  probity. 
What  temptations  would  not  enter  the  dwelling  if  she 
were  not  there  to  close  the  door!  What  ugly  ideas 
which  dare  not  form  themselves  because  her  look 
searches  him  to  the  bottom !  The  difficulty  of  avowing 
a  bad  intention  forces  us  often  to  remain  honest ;  for  it 
is  not  so  easy  as  might  be  believed  for  one  to  declare  his 
wickedness  to  another,  and  for  both  to  go  in  an  evil 
way.  Though  one  does  so  the  boldness  is  not  equal ; 
there  is  always  one  who  is  troubled,  who  draws  back, 
and  it  is  more  often  the  woman.  Usually  where  she  is 
listened  to  all  goes  straight  and  safely. 

For  my  part  I  had  made  a  happy  choice.  I  found  in 
Genevieve  all  I  had  hoped,  and  more.    Such  as  I  had 

[238] 


A  JOUNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

seen  her  the  first  day,  such  I  found  her  after  marriage, 
and  such  she  has  ever  remained.  I  have  confided  to  her 
all  my  projects;  I  have  told  her  all  my  business,  and  she 
has  given  me  counsel  without  too  much  having  the  ap- 
pearance of  it.  To  my  mind  the  greatest  joy  of  the 
home  is  in  this  trust,  which  makes  the  heart,  like  the 
purse,  always  in  common.  If  you  are  sad  or  angry  or 
hopeful  you  will  find  at  least  one  to  share  these  senti- 
ments with  you;  you  do  not  let  all  these  little  rivulets 
form  a  pond,  as  it  were,  until  at  length  they  burst  the 
bank.  That  which  the  current  of  life  brings  to  you 
each  day  is  carried  away  by  these  confidences  as  by  an 
overflow,  and  in  this  manner  the  soul  keeps  near  its  level. 
Since  my  marriage  I  had  imitated  Mauricet.  I  had 
undertaken  a  little  enterprise  which  had  succeeded; 
but,  like  all  those  who  begin,  I  had  to  bid  low  and  work 
upon  small  resources.  The  good  result  was  less  in  the 
profit  than  in  the  success.  I  had  gained  little,  but  I  be- 
gan to  make  myself  known.  Soon  I  found  myself  full  of 
business.  My  exactitude  and  my  activity  had  inspired 
confidence.  Lacking  capital,  I  obtained  credit.  It  was 
necessary  to  have  mind  and  hand  in  everything,  press 
things  vigorously,  safely,  and  complete  them  at  the 
fixed  time  under  penalty  of  a  downfall.  The  task  was 
hard,  but  in  the  end  all  went  well ;  the  returns  and  the 
payments  were  managed  so  as  to  balance,  and  I  hoped 
that  my  efforts  would  finish  by  relieving  my  elbows  a 
little.  Once  master  of  sufficient  capital,  things  would 
go  themselves;  only  for  the  time  being  it  was  necessary 
to  mount  on  the  roof  without  a  ladder  until  I  made  one, 
round  by  round. 

[239] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

Robert  came  to  see  us  often  enough.  I  noticed  with 
displeasure  that  the  Httle  savings  intended  for  some 
pleasure-party,  or  for  the  toilet  of  Genevieve,  passed  in- 
variably from  the  drawer  of  the  aunt  into  the  pocket  of 
the  nephew.  I  did  not  complain,  for  it  was  easier  for 
me  to  sacrifice  this  little  money  than  to  afflict  the  excel- 
lent creature;  she  made  up  for  these  little  prodigalities 
by  so  much  work,  frugality,  and  economy  that  I  had 
the  appearance  of  seeing  nothing.  In  this  I  sought 
rather  my  peace  than  her  advantage,  and  if  I  had  had 
more  sense  I  should  have  understood  that  my  duty  was 
to  enlighten  her.  Because  the  defects  of  those  who  live 
at  our  side  are  a  little  matter  and  cause  us  no  incon- 
venience it  is  not  necessary  to  close  the  eyes,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  to  look  after  and  cure  them. 

I  had  gone  to  Burgundy  to  look  over  some  work 
which  was  soon  to  be  awarded.  My  absence  was  to 
last  twelve  days.  Genevieve  was  alone  with  our  boy, 
Marcel,  who  was  only  three  years  old.  I  have  since 
learned  from  her  what  passed  in  my  absence,  and  I  will 
relate  it. 

The  day  after  my  departure  Robert  came  to  see  her. 
He  appeared  troubled  and  low-spirited.  To  all  ques- 
tions he  only  responded  by  broken  words  and  sighs. 
She  kept  him  to  dinner,  but  he  ate  nothing  and  became 
still  more  sad.  Concerned,  she  pressed  him  more; 
then  he  said  his  life  displeased  him,  and  that  some  day 
he  should  throw  it  away  like  a  pair  of  worn-out  shoes. 
Genevieve,  distressed,  endeavored  in  vain  to  combat 
his  discouragement ;  the  more  she  talked  the  more  Rob- 
ert persevered  in  his  resolution,  giving  her  to  under- 

[  240  ] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

stand,  even,  that  nothing  else  remained  for  him  to  do. 
His  aunt  pressed  him  for  explanation;  but  he  persisted 
in  his  silence,  intimating  a  guilt  which  he  did  not  wish 
to  confess.  Quite  frightened,  she  carried  to  his  cradle 
the  little  Marcel,  who  had  gone  to  sleep  in  her  arms, 
and  returned  to  Robert,  decided  to  get  his  secret  from 
him. 

She  found  him  with  his  elbows  upon  his  knees  and 
his  head  between  his  hands,  like  one  in  despair.  Gene- 
vieve said  everything  to  him  that  her  affection  could  in- 
vent. She  spoke  to  him  of  his  father,  of  the  promise 
that  she  had  made  of  taking  his  place ;  she  named,  one 
after  another,  all  the  faults  she  could  suppose  him 
guilty  of,  asking  him  to  respond  alone  by  a  word  or  a 
sign;  but  Robert  always  shook  his  head.  Finally,  at 
the  end  of  all  patience,  she  stopped,  when  he  straight- 
ened up  quickly  and  exclaimed  that  if  he  didn't  have  one 
hundred  louis  for  the  next  day  he  was  ruined.  Gene- 
vieve started  back  as  if  he  had  demanded  the  crown  of 
France. 

"One  hundred  louis!"  she  repeated;  "and  whom  do 
you  expect  to  give  them  to  you?  Why  do  you  need 
them  ?    What  do  you  wish  to  do  with  them  ?  " 

"I  owe  them,"  responded  Robert. 

And  as  his  aunt  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of  doubt  he 
began  to  unroll  for  her  the  list  of  his  dissipations  for 
the  past  three  years.  He  had  about  him  creditors'  let- 
ters, unreceipted  bills,  and  even  assignments  upon 
stamped  paper;  but  the  more  he  explained  to  Gene- 
vieve the  more  she  waxed  indignant  and  felt  pity  leave 
her. 

i6  [  241  ] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

"Well,  then,  since  you  have  been  able  to  spend  such 
a  sum  you  will  have  to  earn  it,"  she  said,  resolutely. 
"If  I  had  it  there  in  my  apron  and  it  belonged  to  me, 
and  I  had  no  use  for  it,  you  should  not  have  the  first 
penny!  Ah,  they  have  reason  for  saying  that  God 
loves  us  better  than  we  love  ourselves!  When  He  took 
my  poor  brother  I  had  accused  Him  in  my  heart,  and 
now  I  see  that  He  should  have  been  thanked,  for  He 
has  spared  him  grief  and  shame." 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Robert,  with  a  sort  of  desperate 
audacity,  "more  shame  than  you  believe;  for  I  have 
not  told  all." 

"And  what  yet  remains  to  be  said,  unhappy  wretch  ? " 
cried  Genevieve. 

Her  nephew  had  risen,  pale,  and  as  if  beside  himself. 

"Well,  then,"  he  said,  showing  the  letters  of  his  cred- 
itors, "it  is  necessary  to  pay  all  that  under  pain  of  going 
to  prison,  and  I  have  paid  it." 

"You!    How?" 

"With  a  note." 

She  looked  at  him  without  comprehending. 

"What  note?"  she  demanded. 

"A  note  signed  with  the  name  of  your  husband." 

"What  do  you  say,  wretched  one?    A  forgery?" 

He  lowered  his  head;  Genevieve  wrung  her  hands 
and  cried.  Both  remained  an  instant  without  speak- 
ing. At  last  the  aunt  got  up  again,  took  Robert  by  the 
shoulders  and  shook  him. 

"You  have  lied  to  me!"  she  exclaimed;  "you  do  not 
owe  one  hundred  louis;  you  have  not  forged  a  note; 
you  wish  to  draw  the  money  from  me." 

[242  ] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

The  young  man  raised  his  head  and  reddened. 

"Ah!  I  have  lied,"  he  stammered;  "well,  then,  it  is 
no  use;  let  us  say  no  more  about  it." 

He  took  his  hat  and  suddenly  went  out. 

Genevieve  let  him  go;  but  she  passed  a  terrible 
night.  She  bolted  upright  at  every  noise,  believing  that 
they  came  to  inform  her  of  the  arrest  or  death  of  Rob- 
ert ;  she  accused  herself  of  hardness.  Twice  she  put  on 
her  shawl  to  run  to  the  lodging  of  her  nephew,  and 
twice  a  doubt  that  she  could  not  dismiss  retained  her. 
The  next  day,  toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  an 
unknown  man  with  great  whiskers  and  covered  with 
rings  and  charms  presented  himself  with  three  notes, 
signed  with  my  name.  They  were  the  forgeries  of 
which  Robert  had  spoken! 

When  she  saw  them  Genevieve  became  very  pale,  so 
pale  that  the  stranger,  who  called  himself  Dumanoir, 
raised  his  eyebrows;  finally,  not  knowing  what  to  say, 
she  asked  him  whom  he  held  for  their  value. 

"You  can  see,"  the  stranger  replied,  showing  on  the 
back  side  the  signatures  of  three  or  four  indorsers. 

"And  you  have  need — immediately — of  money?" 
said  my  wife,  more  and  more  troubled. 

"Parbleu!^^  he  replied,  "I  have  two  pa)mients  to 
make  to-morrow,  and  I  counted  upon  my  returns. 
They  told  me  your  husband  was  good ;  I  hope  that  they 
have  not  deceived  me!" 

In  speaking  thus  he  narrowly  watched  Genevieve, 
who  said  no  more,  but  began  to  weep. 

"Eh!"  cried  Dumanoir,  "tears!  Are  these,  by 
chance,  all  you  have  to  give  me  ?    But  are  you  not  solv- 

[243] 


EMILE  SOUVES'TRE 

ent  then?    Have  you  not  the  one  hundred  louis?    Ah! 
a  thousand  thunders!    I  am  ruined!" 

He  then  got  up  with  so  many  curses  and  menaces 
against  me  that  my  poor  frightened  wife  revealed  every- 
thing. At  the  announcement  that  the  notes  were  forged 
Dumanoir  made  a  bound. 

" So  I  am  robbed ! "  he  cried ;  "and  by  whom ?  You 
know  the  forger,  you  are  interested  in  him,  for  you  did 
not  at  once  reveal  the  fraud.  I  wish  you  to  tell  me 
who  he  is,  or  I  will  denounce  you.  I  will  have  you 
condemned  as  his  accomplice." 

Genevieve  was  about  to  reply  when  the  door  sudden- 
ly opened.  It  was  Robert.  At  the  cry  that  she  made 
Dumanoir  turned  toward  the  young  man,  who,  seeing 
the  notes  between  his  hands,  fell  upon  his  knees. 

There  was  then  a  scene  which  my  wife  has  never  been 
able  to  describe  to  me,  because  when  she  thinks  of  it  the 
unhappiness  of  it  overcomes  her  power  of  utterance. 
All  that  I  have  known  is  that  after  many  tears  and 
prayers,  seeing  that  the  man  with  the  notes  had  decided 
to  arrest  Robert,  and  the  latter  clinging  to  the  window 
from  which  he  threatened  to  throw  himself  to  the  court 
below,  her  heart  could  no  longer  keep  her  back.  She 
ran  to  the  secretary,  which  served  me  for  cash-box, 
took  three  hundred  and  fifty  francs,  which  were  all  my 
reserve,  and  offered  them  to  get  back  the  notes.  The 
creditor  appeared  at  first  to  hesitate,  but  upon  the  ob- 
servation that  Robert  was  without  resource  and  that  in 
refusing  this  offer  he  would  lose  all,  the  exchange  was 
made  and  Dumanoir  left.  After  rapidly  thanking  his 
aunt  Robert  followed  him. 

[244] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

There  was  in  his  accent  and  his  attitude  so  sudden  a 
change  that  Genevieve  was  struck.  Left  alone  and  re- 
Heved  of  her  emotion,  she  recalled  all  that  had  taken 
place  and  found  something  singular  in  it.  The  more 
she  reflected  the  more  the  words  and  actions  of  Robert 
left  her  in  doubt.  She  could  not  say  what  she  suspected, 
but  she  felt  that  there  was  somewhere  a  lie !  She  hoped 
for  enlightenment  at  the  next  visit  of  the  young  man. 
Two  days  passed  without  his  reappearing.  Genevieve, 
whose  disquietude  increased,  confided  Marcel  to  a 
neighbor  and  hastened  to  seek  him  in  the  Rue  Bertin- 
Poiree. 

Reaching  the  fifth  story  at  the  landing  of  the  little 
chamber  inhabited  by  Robert,  she  saw  the  door  open 
and  an  evil-faced  man  come  out  holding  a  packet. 
Although  changed  in  costume,  and  no  more  wearing 
the  large  whiskers,  she  recognized  Dumanoir!  Profit- 
ing by  the  movement  of  surprise  which  held  her  for  an 
instantly  speechless,  he  quickly  passed  and  descended. 
Genevieve  pushed  open  Robert's  door;  there  was  no 
one  there;  but  the  furniture  drawers  had  nothing  in 
them,  the  closets  were  open  and  empty ;  some  worn-out 
clothes  were  scattered  about  the  floor.  Surprised  at 
this  disorder,  she  went  downstairs  to  the  porter's  lodge 
to  ask  explanations  of  him.  The  porter  knew  nothing 
and  had  seen  nothing.  All  he  could  say  was  that  Rob- 
ert had  entered  the  evening  before  with  the  man  that 
she  had  passed  on  the  stairs;  they  both  appeared  to  be 
in  a  joyous  mood  and  jingled  gold  coins  in  their  pock- 
ets. Genevieve  could  no  more  doubt;  the  scene  of  the 
notes  was  a  comedy,  agreed  upon  between  Robert  and 

[245] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

the  pretended  creditor;  they  had  counted  upon  her 
fright,  upon  her  feebleness;  she  was  the  victim  of  a 
swindle  of  which  the  son  of  her  brother  was  the  inven- 
tor. This  idea  was  like  the  stroke  of  a  knife  in  her 
heart.  She  put  it  from  her;  she  waited  for  Robert  all 
the  evening  and  yet  the  next  day.  She  could  not  doubt, 
and  yet  she  could  not  believe.  Grief,  indignation,  dis- 
quietude, tormented  her  turn  by  turn.  When  I  arrived 
she  had  lost,  for  five  days,  sleep  and  appetite.  I  found 
her  so  much  changed  that,  alarmed,  I  demanded  if  she 
were  ill. 

"It  is  much  worse,"  she  replied,  in  a  choking  voice. 

And  without  waiting  my  questions,  like  one  who  has 
need  of  easing  her  mind,  she  began  telling  me  in  broken 
phrases  what  had  passed  since  my  departure.  When 
she  came  to  the  three  hundred  and  fifty  francs  given  to 
Robert  I  interrupted  by  an  exclamation  of  fright.  I  be- 
lieved I  had  misunderstood,  and  ran  to  the  secretary. 
The  hiding-place  held  only  the  empty  bag.  My  throat 
grew  parched,  my  legs  trembled  so  it  was  necessary  to 
support  myself  against  the  wall.  Genevieve  regarded 
me  with  wide-open  eyes,  her  hands  limply  hanging,  her 
lips  trembling  like  one  in  a  fever.  Seeing  her  in  this  con- 
dition, the  anger  which  filled  my  heart  relaxed  and  I 
said  to  her,  very  gently : 

"You  have  given  the  money;  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
pay  what  I  owe;  that  is  all;  we  are  ruined ! " 

In  fact,  I  had  three  notes  due  the  next  day,  and  this 
reserve  fund  was  intended  to  satisfy  them.  Its  disap- 
pearance deranged  all  my  calculations,  destroyed  my 
credit.     I  made  Genevieve  comprehend  the  situation. 

[246] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

The  poor  creature  was  so  startled  that  I  wished  to  hide 
my  own  torment. 

This  good  impulse  made  me  content  with  myself  and 
relieved  my  heart.  The  courage  which  I  had  at  first 
shown  through  love  for  Genevieve  came  to  me,  little  by 
little.  I  was  still  young;  I  had  done  no  wrong;  I  felt 
that  all  my  strength  remained  to  begin  over  again.  The 
important  thing  at  this  time  was  to  honor  my  engage- 
ments. I  spoke  to  Genevieve  quietly,  tenderly,  like  a 
man.  I  said  to  her  that  nothing  was  desperate,  but  that 
it  was  necessary  to  renounce  for  the  moment  all  the 
little  comforts  of  the  house,  keeping  only  the  indispen- 
sable things  and  accepting  again  the  coarser  life  of  the 
poorer  workmen.  She  responded  only  by  weeping  and 
pressing  my  hands  when  I  had  finished. 

"Ah,  you  are  still  better  than  I  believed,"  she  said  to 
me.  "  I  only  ask  one  more  thing  of  the  good  God,  and 
that  is  to  let  me  live  long  enough  to  pay  you  for  your 
kindness." 

God  has  listened  to  her  prayer,  and  she  has  fulfilled 
her  promise,  for  that  which  she  called  my  kindness  has 
been  paid  in  happiness,  interest  and  principal. 

That  same  evening  I  called  upon  the  other  builders 
of  my  acquaintance  and  made  over  to  them  some  jobs 
for  a  little  ready  money  which  would  pay  for  my  ma- 
terials. Meantime,  Genevieve  had  called  in  some  fur- 
niture-dealers and  sold  the  better  part  of  our  movables. 
All  together  made  up  the  sum  of  which  I  stood  in  need. 
My  notes  were  paid  without  default. 

But  the  breakdown  had  been  noticeable;  every  one 
knew  that  I  had  again  reentered  the  regiment  of  the 

[247] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

needy,  and  withdrew  from  me  the  consideration  which 
had  hitherto  been  accorded  me.  It  was  useless  for  me 
to  bid  for  little  contracts;  no  one  any  more  wished  to 
make  me  advances  nor  to  give  credit;  they  saw  my 
downfall  without  considering  my  honesty.  As  a  last  un- 
happiness,  Mauricet  was  absent;  the  need  pressed;  it  was 
necessary  to  resume  the  trowel  and  live  by  day's  wages. 

And  still  Robert  had  not  yet  reappeared.  In  spite  of 
all,  Genevieve  kept  for  him  an  incurable  affection;  I 
saw  that  she  was  sad  because  she  did  not  know  what 
had  become  of  him.  Two  months  had  passed,  and  for 
my  part  I  endeavored  to  forget  the  nephew,  when  a  po- 
liceman presented  himself  in  my  home.  Happily,  I  was 
alone.  He  showed  me  a  bit  of  paper  with  my  name  and 
address  half  effaced;  they  had  found  it  upon  a  mur- 
dered man.  A  little  troubled,  I  followed  the  officer  to 
the  morgue  and  there  I  recognized  the  corpse  of  Rob- 
ert. He  had  still  around  his  neck  the  cord  and  the  stone 
that  they  had  tied  to  him  to  drown  him.  The  accomplice 
of  his  theft  had  wished  to  profit  alone,  and,  as  it  so  often 
happens,  the  crime  had  been  punished  by  a  new  crime. 

Genevieve  knew  the  thing  only  a  long  time  after. 
So  far  the  murderers  have  not  been  discovered;  per- 
haps they  have  submitted  in  their  turn  to  the  fate  which 
they  had  meted  out  to  Robert,  for  in  evil  as  in  good  it 
is  rare  that  one  does  not  harvest  that  which  he  sows. 
In  regard  to  us,  the  recollection  of  the  unhappy  being 
who  had  thrown  his  wickedness  across  our  happiness 
was  soon  lost  in  the  hardest  trials;  the  bad  days  ap- 
proached, and  we  were  about  to  be,  as  Friend  Mauricet 
said,  guaranteed  the  storm  without  cape  or  umbrella. 

[248] 


CHAPTER  X 

UPHILL   WORK 

•T  is  a  hard  thing  to  come  down  again  in 
life  after  one  has  once  climbed  up,  and 
black  bread  seems  hard  to  eat  when 
the  teeth  have  begun  to  soften  on 
white  bread.  I  presented  a  good  face 
to  this  bad  fortune;  but  at  bottom  I 
felt  a  suppressed  vexation  which  made 
me  unhappy  and  gave,  as  they  say, 
a  bad  taste  to  life.  Although  she  had  a  determined  air 
Genevieve  was  no  more  resigned.  We  both  sang  to 
defy  our  ill-fortune,  but  not  for  gayety.  For  fear  of 
exposing  our  hearts  we  kept  silent,  enveloping  our  sad- 
ness in  our  pride  and  growing  slightly  hardened.  I  felt 
it,  but  without  power  to  do  otherwise.  I  was  like  one 
who  totters;  to  remain  upright  it  was  necessary  to  be 
rigid. 

One  evening  I  returned  from  work  with  the  sack  upon 
my  shoulder,  and  I  walked  the  streets  whistling.  I 
went  without  hurrying,  for  the  sight  of  my  home  did  not 
rejoice  my  eye  as  formerly.  I  could  not  accustom  my- 
self to  the  empty  gaps  in  the  furnishings,  to  the  walls 
without  hangings,  and,  above  all,  to  the  careworn  air 
of  Genevieve.  Formerly  all  was  neat  and  cheerful, 
everything  welcomed  me;  within  there  was  an  eternal 

[249] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

ray  of  the  sun;  but  since  our  downfall  one  would  have 
said  that  the  cardinal  points  had  changed;  from  the 
south  we  found  ourselves  carried  to  the  north.  I  passed 
along  then  with  short  steps,  without  much  noticing  a 
fine  snow  which  fell  as  through  a  sifter  and  powdered 
the  icy  roadway.  Having  nearly  reached  the  end  of  the 
faubourg,  I  perceived  an  old  woman  wearily  pushing 
before  her  one  of  those  small  wagons  which  are  the  roll- 
ing shops  of  the  people  of  Paris.  The  ice  rendered  the 
task  doubly  laborious.  The  snow  streaked  the  great 
wool  shawl  in  which  she  was  enveloped  and  filled  the 
folds  of  the  handkerchief  upon  her  head.  She  breathed 
with  difficulty,  stopping  at  each  minute  with  spent 
strength,  then  redoubling  her  effort.  I  was  filled,  in- 
voluntarily, with  pity.  The  memory  of  my  mother 
crossed  my  mind,  and  I  joined  the  vender,  who  had 
stopped  for  breath. 

"Hallo,  old  woman,"  I  said  to  her,  smiling,  "that  is 
too  much  for  you." 

"That  is  the  truth,  my  son,"  she  responded,  wiping 
her  face  where  the  sweat  mingled  with  the  snow; 
"strength  goes  with  age  while  the  load  always  keeps 
its  weight;  but  the  good  God  does  everything  well;  he 
will  not  abandon  the  poor  people." 

I  asked  her  where  she  was  going.  She  pointed  out  the 
way  to  me  and  was  about  to  proceed.  I  then  put  my 
hand  upon  one  of  the  shafts. 

"Let  me,"  I  said  to  her,  gently.  "It  is  my  road.  It 
will  cost  me  no  more  to  go  over  it  with  your  barrow." 

And  without  waiting  her  response  I  pushed  the  cart 
before  me.    The  old  woman  made  no  resistance:  she 

[250] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

simply  thanked  me  and  walked  at  my  side.  I  learned 
then  that  she  had  come  from  buying  provisions  at  the 
markets  which  she  was  to  sell  again.  Whatever  the 
season  or  the  weather  she  continued  to  run  about  Paris 
until  she  had  disposed  of  her  load.  For  thirty  years  she 
had  lived  by  this  trade,  which  had  yielded  her  the  means 
of  raising  three  sons. 

"But  when  I  had  them  tall  and  strong,  they  took 
them  away  from  me,"  said  the  poor  woman.  "Two 
have  died  in  the  army  and  the  last  is  upon  an  English 
prison-ship." 

"So,"  I  exclaimed,  "you  find  yourself  alone  without 
resource  than  your  courage!" 

"And  the  Protector  of  those  who  have  no  other,"  she 
added.  "The  good  God  must  have  something  to  do 
in  his  paradise;  and  how  would  he  pass  his  time  if  he 
did  not  take  care  of  creatures  like  me?  I  can  tell  you, 
when  one  is  old  and  miserable  the  idea  that  the  King 
of  all  regards  you,  that  he  judges  you  and  keeps  your 
account,  that  sustains  you!  When  I  am  so  tired  that 
my  feet  can  no  longer  carry  me,  then  I  go  down  on  my 
knees  and  say  to  Him  softly  what  troubles  me,  and  when 
I  get  up  I  always  have  a  lighter  heart.  You  are  still 
too  young  to  feel  this,  but  a  day  will  come  when  you 
will  comprehend  why  they  teach  little  children  to  say, 
'Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven!'" 

I  did  not  answer.  I  felt  that  light  was  come!  The 
old  woman  continued  to  talk  in  the  same  way  as  far  as 
the  end  of  the  faubourg.  In  all  her  great  trials  she 
had  sought  a  consolation  higher  than  earth  in  a  world 
where  nothing  could  change.     Listening  to  her  speech 

[251] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

my  heart  throbbed.  I  regarded  this  hmping  old  woman, 
with  her  shaking  head  already  bent  as  if  to  take  up  her 
winding-sheet,  and  I  was  astonished  to  find  her  stronger 
than  Genevieve  and  I,  It  was,  then,  true  that  man  had 
need  of  another  point  of  support  than  men,  and  that 
to  keep  himself  firmly  upon  this  scaffolding  which  com- 
poses his  life  it  is  necessary  to  have  a  cord  knotted  in  the 
heavens ! 

When  I  left  the  old  woman  near  the  city  gate  she 
thanked  me ;  but,  in  truth,  it  was  I  who  owed  her  grati- 
tude, for  she  had  reawakened  ideas  which  had  slept 
in  the  depths  of  my  mind.  I  reached  home  quite  pre- 
occupied with  my  encounter.  This  evening — why,  I 
did  not  know — Genevieve  was  uncommonly  sad;  it 
seemed  to  me  even  that  her  eyes  were  red.  We  supped 
and  said  nothing.  The  child  slept.  Then  we  sat  near 
the  dying  embers  of  the  fire.  It  was  only  when  the 
clock  struck  that  Genevieve  got  up  with  a  sigh.  It  was 
the  bedtime  hour.  Then  I  got  up  also.  I  took  the 
hand  of  the  dear  woman  and  drew  her  against  my 
shoulder. 

"It  is  too  long  a  time  that  we  have  carried  our  grief 
all  alone,"  I  said  to  her  in  a  low  voice;  "let  us  ask  God 
to  take  His  part." 

And  I  knelt;  Genevieve  did  the  same,  saying  nothing. 
I  began  then  to  repeat  all  the  prayers  I  had  ever  learned 
in  my  childhood  and  which  have  remained  since  like  a 
deposit  in  a  corner  of  my  heart.  As  the  words  returned 
to  my  memory  they  seemed  to  find  a  sense  which  I  had 
never  grasped  before;  it  was  a  language  which  I  com- 
prehended for  the  first  time.     I  cannot  say  whether 

[252] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

something  similar  passed  through  the  mind  of  Genevieve 
but  I  soon  heard  her  quietly  weeping.  When  I  got  up 
she  embraced  me,  sobbing. 

"You  have  had  an  idea  which  saves  us,"  she  said  to 
me.  "Now  that  you  have  made  me  think  again  of 
God  I  feel  that  I  can  regain  my  courage!" 

And,  in  fact,  from  that  day  everything  went  better  in 
the  house.  Our  hearts  were  relieved  of  their  tension. 
We  began  again  to  have  better  thoughts.  The  evening 
prayer  was  always  reposeful  and  softening.  Poor  old 
woman!  While  she  told  me  the  story  of  her  life  she 
hardly  knew  what  good  she  did  me.  I  have  never  since 
seen  her,  but  more  than  once  Genevieve  and  I  have 
blessed  her. 

"It  is  easy  to  see  that  the  times  of  the  good  fairies 
have  not  yet  passed,"  she  said  to  me,  "since  you  have 
found  one  who  for  payment  of  a  light  service  has  given 
you  a  talisman  of  resignation." 

Although  forced  to  return  to  the  trowel  I  had  not  lost 
hope  of  again  undertaking  contracts,  and  it  often  dis- 
tressed me  to  see  desirable  jobs  pass  into  other  hands. 
One  in  particular  tempted  rne  because  of  its  profit. 
It  was  needful,  unhappily,  to  attempt  it  to  advance 
a  few  hundred  francs!  I  returned  to  the  stone-yard 
sad  enough  because  of  my  inability  to  seize  so  happy 
a  chance,  when  two  large  hands  grasped  me  by  the 
shoulders.     I  quickly  turned ;  it  was  Mauricet. 

The  master-mason,  kept  now  for  many  months  in 
Burgundy,  had  returned  to  Paris  upon  business,  leav- 
ing again  the  same  evening.  He  made  me  go  to  an 
eating-house,  and,  in  spite  of  all  I  could  say,  forced  me 

[253] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

to  eat  a  second  breakfast  with  him.  Prosperity  had 
fattened  Mauricet,  who  was  dressed  in  a  splendid  vest 
of  fine  cloth,  a  long-haired  beaver,  and  a  cherry-silk 
cravat.  The  heart  was  the  same,  but  the  tone  had 
raised  a  notch.  Mauricet  was  full  of  self-confidence 
since  he  found  himself  at  the  head  of  twenty  workmen. 
I  had  always  seen  him  so  modest  that  his  assurance  ap- 
peared to  me  simply  the  consciousness  of  his  prosperity. 

Since  his  arrival  in  Paris  he  had  been  vaguely  in- 
formed of  my  downfall  and  wished  to  know  all  about 
it.  When  I  had  told  him  the  facts  he  struck  the  table 
with  the  sealed  bottle  of  Bordeaux  which  he  had  ordered 
in  spite  of  my  refusal  to  drink. 

''A  thousand  thunders!  Why  didn't  you  write  about 
the  thing  to  me?"  he  exclaimed.  ** I  should  have 
found  enough  money  to  settle  your  business.  What  are 
you  doing  now?  Come!  Where  are  you?  Cannot  I 
put  a  little  chalk  into  your  mortar?" 

I  made  known  to  him  my  position,  saying  a  word  of 
the  job  which  presented  itself. 

"And  you  only  need  five  hundred  francs?"  asked 
Mauricet. 

I  replied  that  this  sum  would  sufiice  me  and  more. 
He  immediately  called;  a  waiter  entered. 

"A  pen  and  ink!"  demanded  the  mason. 

I  looked  at  him  with  surprise. 

"You  do  not  understand  what  I  wish  to  do  with  this 
trash  here;  is  it  not  true?"  he  laughingly  said  to  me. 
"In  fact,  I  am  no  more  an  advocate  of  the  black  and 
the  white  than  in  the  past ;  but  it  is  necessary  to  bray  for 
the  donkeys.    When  I  saw  then  that  they  could  only 

[254] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

do  business  with  the  quill  and  the  inkstand,  my  faith, 
I  said,  'Bring  up  the  rear-guard!'  And  to-day  I  use 
them  like  any  one  else." 

"You  have  learned  to  write!"  I  exclaimed. 

"You  shall  see!"  said  Mauricet,  winking  his  eye  at 
me. 

He  had  drawn  from  a  portfolio  a  stamped  paper,  upon 
which  he  made  me  write  a  draft  for  five  hundred  francs. 
When  I  had  finished  it  he  signed  his  name  in  unequally 
written  letters  in  imitation  of  print. 

"Now,"  he  said  to  me,  when  the  painful  operation 
was  completed,  "present  this  to  Perigaux,  and  you  shall 
have  your  money  on  the  spot.  That  queer  signature  of 
Mauricet  is  known  in  their  shop,  and  I  can  procure 
money  when  I  wish." 

They  gave  me  the  money,  in  fact,  without  any  diffi- 
culty, and  the  next  day  I  undertook  the  job  for  which 
it  was  designed.  Everything  went  well  at  first.  The 
work  was  quickly  carried  on  and  finished  before  the 
time  set.  I  had  been  able  from  the  first  payments  to 
return  to  Mauricet  his  money.  This  new  venture 
brought  me  into  the  swim  again,  and  I  began  to  feel 
myself  rising,  when  a  lawsuit  against  our  principal  con- 
tractor stopped  everything.  My  fate  and  that  of  ten 
others  were  intimately  connected  with  his.  We  found 
our  hands  tied  without  any  means  of  acting  or  of  draw- 
ing out.  In  the  mean  time,  the  individual  obligations 
of  each  one  remained ;  the  period  of  payment  for  unused 
materials  arrived ;  the  dues  succeeded  one  another  piti- 
lessly. It  was  necessary  to  face  all  the  attacks  with 
"arms  at  support,"  as  they  say;  find  each  day  some  new 

[255] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

expedient;  obtain  terms,  to  carry  forward,  to  balance 
debits  and  credits.  My  days  were  employed  in  this 
profitless  work.  I  gained  nothing,  and  my  resources 
were  becoming  exhausted.  While  I  employed  my  time 
saving  myself  from  failure  Genevieve  and  the  child 
lacked  necessaries. 

I  racked  my  brains  without  power  of  hastening  mat- 
ters. The  lawsuit  was  always  about  to  be  judged  and 
yet  was  ceaselessly  deferred.  One  day  some  paper  had 
been  forgotten,  another  day  the  lawyer  was  absent,  the 
tribunal  took  a  vacation,  or  the  opponent  had  asked  an 
adjournment!  Meanwhile,  the  weeks  and  the  months 
ran  along.  Our  poor  home  resembled  those  crews  be- 
calmed in  mid-ocean,  who  each  day  reduce  the  ration, 
looking  in  vain  to  the  horizon  to  see  if  the  clouds  an- 
nounce the  return  of  the  wind.  I  have  had  hard  trials  in 
my  life,  but  none  comparable  to  this.  Ordinarily,  the 
misfortunes  which  strike  us  leave  room  for  action;  one 
can  seek  solace  or  salvation  in  work;  but  here  all  efforts 
were  useless;  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  cross  the  arms 
and  wait. 

At  length  this  powerlessness  rendered  me  gloomy  and 
fretful.  Without  knowing  any  one  else  to  blame,  I 
found  fault  with  Genevieve;  taking  no  account  of  the 
poor  creature's  efforts  to  disguise  from  me  our  misery, 
of  her  work  to  soften  it,  one  would  have  said  that  I 
wished  the  privations  which  she  supported.  At  the 
bottom  my  irritation  was  still  that  of  love;  it  came  of 
my  grief  in  seeing  her  suffer.  I  would  have  given  my 
blood,  drop  by  drop,  to  buy  her  comfort  and  repose  of 
spirit;  but  my  good -will  was  changed  to  bad  humor 

[256] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

because  of  my  lack  of  success;  it  was  like  a  thorn-hedge 
upon  which  I  tore  her  in  vexation  because  I  was  unable 
to  make  a  covering  to  defend  her. 

One  day  in  particular  I  returned  more  soured  than 
common.  I  had  passed  three  hours  with  the  lawyer, 
who  chatted  with  his  friends  and  whom  I  heard  laugh 
while  I  was  gnawed  at  the  heart.  It  was  necessary  to 
wait  the  end  of  their  jolly  stories;  then,  when  my  turn 
was  come,  I  found  a  man  who  yawned  in  listening  to 
me,  who  knew  nothing  of  my  business,  and  by  whom 
I  had  been  directed  to  his  first  clerk,  then  absent.  I 
returned  home  then,  swelling  with  wrath  against  the 
dispensers  of  justice  who  file  away  in  their  boxes  our  for- 
tune, our  repose,  our  honor,  and  who,  often  as  not,  do 
not  know  even  what  they  have  given  them  to  protect. 
To  finish  me,  I  had  been  refused  the  payment  of  my 
last  bill. 

As  if  everything  sought  to  irritate  my  melancholy,  I 
found  Genevieve  in  a  festive  mood.  She  went  about 
singing  and  received  me  with  a  joyous  exclamation. 
I  rudely  asked  her  what  happy  thing  had  happened 
since  my  departure ;  if  we  had  received  a  fortune  from 
America.  She  responded  pleasantly,  put  her  arm  about 
my  neck,  and  led  me  to  the  almanac  suspended  against 
the  chimney. 

"Well,  then?"  I  demanded. 

"Well,  then!  Do  you  not  see  the  day,  sir?"  she  said 
gayly;  "it  is  the  twenty-fifth." 

"Yes,"   I   replied   ill-humoredly,   releasing   myself; 
"and  soon  it  will  be  the  thirtieth,  the  day  when  my  notes 
fall  due.    A  plague  upon  the  notes  and  the  almanacs ! " 
17  [257] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

She  had  an  air  of  grieved  astonishment. 

"What  has  happened,  Peter  Henry?"  she  resumed, 
uneasily;  "have  you  learned  some  bad  news?" 

"I  have  learned  nothing,  as  usual." 

"Then,"  she  continued,  passing  an  arm  through  mine, 
"put  over  your  anxieties  until  to-morrow  and  keep  to- 
day for  happiness." 

I  looked  at  her  in  a  way  to  prove  that  I  did  not  under- 
stand. 

"Come,  ugly  man!"  she  said,  poutingly,  "don't  you 
know  that  it  is  the  anniversary  of  our  marriage?" 

I  had  in  reality  forgotten  it.  The  years  preceding 
this  anniversary  were  occasions  of  rejoicing  and  tender 
feeling,  but  this  time  it  was  quite  otherwise.  The  recol- 
lection of  past  happiness  rendered  the  present  sufferings 
more  bitter.  The  comparison  which  I  had  made  in  my 
thought  excited  within  me  a  sort  of  despair,  and  I 
dropped  into  a  chair  muttering  maledictions.  Gene- 
vieve, dismayed,  wished  to  know  what  was  the  matter. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  cried.  "God  pardon  me! 
One  would  say  that  you  had  never  heard  me  speak  of 
it!  What  is  the  matter?  Well,  then,  to  be  sure!  I 
have  debts  which  I  cannot  pay  and  creditors  who  will 
not  wait.  I  have  a  lawsuit  which  will  ruin  me  while 
I  wait  to  gain  it.  I  have  three  mouths  to  feed  every 
day  without  any  other  resource  than  two  arms  which 
can  not  work.  Ah!  What  is  the  matter?  do  you  ask? 
I  regret  now  that  I  did  not  break  my  back  the  day  I 
fell  from  the  building,  because  then  I  was  only  a  work- 
man without  obligations  and  without  family,  and  only 
a  cofhn  at  four  francs  would  have  settled  my  account!" 

[258] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

All  this  was  said  with  a  frenzy  which  made  the  dear 
woman  tremble;  she  looked  at  me,  the  tears  coming  in 
her  eyes. 

"In  the  name  of  God,  Peter  Henry,  speak  no  more 
in  this  way,"  she  said  to  me;  ''never  tell  me  that  you 
regret  living  unless  you  wish  also  to  make  me  die.  You 
have  been  tormented  all  day,  poor  man,  and  you  are  be- 
side yourself;  but  forget  for  to-day  these  affairs  and 
think  only  of  those  who  love  you.  " 

I  would  perhaps  have  done  what  she  asked,  for  her 
voice  had  touched  my  heart,  when  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  door;  a  policeman  entered. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  poHtely;  "I  have  come  up  be- 
cause you  are  breaking  the  regulations,  and  I  must  report 
you  on  account  of  the  pot  of  flowers  in  your  window." 

I  was  going  to  reply  that  he  was  mistaken,  when  Gene- 
vieve ran  to  the  window-ledge  and  quickly  withdrew 
a  gillyflower,  still  wrapped  in  its  leaf  of  white  paper. 
She  declared  that  she  had  just  returned  from  buying 
it  and  put  it  in  that  place,  where  it  was  safely  retained 
by  many  bars.  The  policeman  listened  patiently  to  all 
her  explanations;  but,  after  repeating  the  law  regard- 
ing the  offence,  he  took  our  names,  informed  us  that 
we  would  have  to  present  ourselves  before  the  police- 
court  and  pay  the  fine,  and,  saluting  us,  retired. 

This  unexpected  interruption  and  the  prospect  of  new 
expense  to  which  we  were  about  to  be  condemned  rudely 
checked  my  returning  good-humor.  When  Genevieve 
wished  to  speak  to  me  I  got  up  exasperated,  cursing 
the  caprice  which  came  thus  to  suddenly  add  to  our 
misery.    I  strode  up  and  down,  talking  in  a  loud,  ex- 

[259] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

cited  voice,  while  my  wife,  pale  and  trembling,  looked 
at  me,  saying  nothing.  I  had  broken  out  when  she  had 
endeavored  to  speak,  and  now  her  silence  increased  my 
anger.  Beside  myself,  I  seized  the  flowerpot,  first 
cause  of  the  dispute,  and  started  for  the  window  to 
throw  it  into  the  street,  when  a  cry  from  Genevieve 
stopped  me.  The  poor  woman  was  near  the  cradle  of 
the  baby,  whom  I  had  waked  up ;  she  pressed  one  hand 
against  her  breast  and  her  other  was  extended  toward 
me. 

"Don't  break  it,  Peter  Henry,"  she  said  to  me,  in  a 
voice  which  I  shall  never  forget;  "it  is  the  flower  of  our 
anniversary!" 

I  held  the  gillyflower  between  my  hands,  hesitating 
about  what  I  should  do  with  it.  I  recalled,  then,  that 
every  year  at  this  season  Genevieve  had  celebrated  the 
date  of  our  marriage  by  the  purchase  of  one  of  these 
flowers,  which  my  mother  had  cultivated  at  the  Bois- 
Riant.  At  this  thought  I  felt  a  shaking  within  me; 
all  my  anger  suddenly  left  me,  it  burst  like  a  fountain 
from  my  heart.  Genevieve  immediately  ran  toward 
me  and  threw  herself  with  the  child  into  my  arms. 

When  all  was  pardoned  and  forgotten  we  sat  down 
to  the  supper- table.  What  had  happened  had  hindered 
my  wife  from  preparing  anything;  I  would  not  let  her 
go  out  to  get  what  we  lacked.  We  supped  gayly  upon 
bread  and  radishes,  the  gillyflower  in  the  midst  of  the 
table  perfuming  our  feast. 


[260] 


CHAPTER  XI 

FRIEND  MAURICET'S   TROUBLE 

^E  had  obtained  a  judgment  which  rec- 
ognized our  right  and  assured  a  part 
of  our  debt  upon  the  security  of  the 
contractor,  but  the  formaHties  had  not 
yet  been  all  fulfilled.  Genevieve  and 
I  were  put  to  all  sorts  of  expedients, 
living  by  chance  and  never  having  in 
the  cupboard  bread  for  the  next  day. 
My  days  were  divided  between  some  passing  work, 
running  between  the  parties  interested  in  the  lawsuit, 
and  visits  to  the  palace  of  justice.  I  have  thought  since 
that  it  would  have  been  wiser  to  have  surrendered  all 
and  begun  afresh,  like  the  child  newly  born ;  but  I  was 
allured  by  these  few  thousand  francs  which  they  showed 
to  me  always  in  perspective,  and  I  could  not  dismiss  my 
hope. 

Months  thus  passed.  I  had  lost  the  habit  of  regular 
occupation,  my  life  was  deranged.  Instead  of  making 
my  way  with  the  workers  I  found  myself  stopped  among 
those  poor  wretches  who  eat  their  dry  bread  to  the  fumes 
of  a  roast  on  the  spit  which  is  constantly  promised  them 
and  which  always  turns.  I  employed  the  present  to 
keep  in  the  line  to  the  gate  of  the  future. 

On  top  of  it  all  the  child  fell  very  ill.     I  was  forced 
[261] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

to  go  to  my  business  and  leave  all  the  cares  to  Gene- 
vieve; but  at  the  first  moment  of  liberty  I  hastily  re- 
turned. The  malady  did  not  decrease;  on  the  contrary 
I  heard  the  wails  of  the  poor  creature  and  its  stifled 
breathing.  When  its  mother  or  I  leaned  over  its  bed 
it  extended  its  little  hands  and  looked  at  us  with  a  sup- 
plicating air;  it  had  the  appearance  of  asking  mercy. 
Accustomed  to  receive  everything  from  us,  it  believed 
that  we  could  give  it  health !  Our  voices,  our  caresses, 
encouraged  it  a  moment;  then  the  suffering  seized  it 
again;  it  repulsed  us;  it  seemed  to  reproach  us;  it  twisted 
its  little  limbs  with  cries  which  cut  us  to  the  heart.  At 
first  I  had  combated  the  mother's  fears,  but  at  length 
I  felt  incapable  of  saying  anything;  I  stood  there  with 
crossed  arms,  displeased  at  her  despair,  which  aug- 
mented my  own,  and  not  having  the  strength  to  give  her 
any  hope.  The  doctor  also  kept  his  counsel;  he  came 
to  the  child's  cradle,  made  a  hasty  examination,  ordered 
what  he  wished,  and  then  disappeared  without  a  word 
of  consolation;  one  would  have  said  it  was  an  architect 
visiting  mortar  and  stones.  Sometimes  I  would  have 
stopped  him,  grasping  him  by  the  arms  and  crying  to 
him  to  speak  and  take  away  from  us  the  illusion  or  the 
care;  but  he  was  too  quick  for  me;  that  which  was  for 
us  the  source  of  so  much  anguish  was  for  him  only  his 
day's  employ. 

O,  the  sad  hours,  my  God!  passed  near  this  little  bed! 
What  long  and  cheerless  nights!  How  I  have  desired 
at  spells  the  power  to  hasten  the  time,  thus  reaching  at 
once  the  depth  of  my  wretchedness!  I  have  since  re- 
called having  read  that  such  an  experience  was  still  one 

[262] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

of  God's  kindnesses.  In  making  us  feel  so  much  an- 
guish he  renders  us  less  sensitive  to  the  last  stroke ;  the 
unhappiness  of  the  waiting  makes  it  desirable;  our 
thought  runs  to  meet  it,  and  when  the  blow  strikes  us 
we  accept  it  as  a  solace. 

After  an  illness  of  fifteen  days  the  child  died.  I  was 
prepared  for  it,  but  it  seems  that  Genevieve  was  not. 
Mothers  never  give  up  those  whom  they  have  brought 
into  the  world ;  they  cannot  believe  in  the  possibility  of 
being  separated  from  them.  The  days  passed  by; 
nothing  consoled  my  poor  wife.  I  found  her  seated 
before  the  empty  cradle  or  handling  the  little  garments 
of  the  dead  child,  giving  to  each  one  a  tear  and  a  kiss. 
I  had  reasone'd  with  her  and  chided,  she  listening  to  me 
patiently  without  raising  her  head,  like  a  poor  heart 
whose  spring  is  broken.  This  despondency  finally  in- 
fected me.  I  relaxed  in  my  turn;  I  took  no  interest  in 
anything;  I  passed  entire  hours  standing  before  the 
window  drumming  upon  the  glass  and  gazing  out  ab- 
stractedly.    We  both  became  benumbed  by  our  grief. 

We  had  not  seen  Mauricet  in  the  two  years  that  he 
had  lived  in  Burgundy;  they  had  only  told  me  that  the 
old  master-workman  was  engaged  in  great  enterprises. 
Two  or  three  times  I  had  had  the  idea  of  informing  him 
of  my  embarrassment  and  of  asking  him  for  a  stroke 
on  the  shoulder;  I  hardly  know  what  pride  restrained 
me.  Now  that  I  supposed  him  among  the  great  finan- 
ciers I  was  less  at  ease  with  him ;  I  feared  that  he  would 
suspect  me  of  wishing  to  trade  on  our  old  friendship. 

We  had,  then,  the  seeming  of  being  a  little  forgotten, 
when,  one  evening,  I  saw  the  new  contractor  arrive,  not 

[263] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

in  a  carriage,  as  I  should  have  expected,  but  on  foot 
and  covered  with  a  traveller's  blouse  over  his  other 
clothes.  He  descended  from  the  diligence  and  came 
to  us  asking  dinner. 

At  the  first  glance  I  saw  a  change  in  him.  He  talked 
as  freely  and  as  loudly  as  ever,  he  laughed  at  every  turn, 
was  restless,  and  asked  more  questions  than  he  waited 
replies;  but  all  this  movement  and  all  this  talk  appeared 
forced;  his  gayety  was  feverish.  He  scarcely  spoke  to 
us  of  the  death  of  our  child ;  when  I  wished  to  speak  of 
my  affairs  he  interrupted  me  to  talk  of  his  own.  He 
brought  notes  and  memoranda  which  he  explained  to 
me,  begging  me  at  the  same  time  to  put  them  in  order. 
Although  his  manners  had  a  little  repelled  me  I  did  as 
he  desired.  During  this  work  Mauricet  paced  about 
the  chamber,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  softly  whis- 
thng.  From  time  to  time  he  stopped  before  the  sheet 
of  paper  which  I  had  covered  with  figures  as  if  he  had 
wished  to  divine  the  result ;  then  he  resumed  his  whis- 
tling and  his  walking.  It  took  much  time  to  complete 
the  calculation;  when  I  had  finished  I  made  it  known 
to  the  master- workman ;  the  liabilities  were  almost 
double  the  assets.  At  the  announcement  of  this  re- 
sult Mauricet  could  not  restrain  an  exclamation : 

"Are  you  certain  of  the  thing?"  he  demanded  in  an 
accent  which  seemed  to  me  altered. 

I  explained  to  him  the  reasons  which  must  necessarily 
bring  this  result.  The  first  was  the  numerous  loans 
and  the  accumulations  of  interest,  with  which  he  had 
seemed  not  to  trouble  himself.  In  the  absence  of 
written  accounts,  he  had  evidently  deceived  himself. 

[264] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

He  listened  to  my  explanations,  supporting  both  hands 
upon  the  table  and  gazing  into  my  face. 

"I  comprehend,  I  comprehend!"  he  said,  when  I  had 
finished;  '*I  have  let  enter  into  my  stable  all  the  horses 
they  wished  to  lend  me,  without  thinking  their  forage 
would  ruin  me.  See  where  one  is  led  when  he  does  not 
know  how  to  make  your  little  fly-tracks,  and  doesn't 
know  your  conjuring-book.  Those  who  have  not  a 
head  for  books  ought  to  do  business  from  hand  to  hand, 
and  not  throw  in  the  papers.  They  are  like  the  river, 
you  see,  which  always  finishes  by  drowning  itself." 

I  asked  him  with  concern  if  there  were  no  other  re- 
sources than  those  which  I  had  noted,  and  if  this  was  his 
entire  schedule. 

' '  Not  at  all,  not  at  all ! "  he  quickly  continued .  * '  You 
tell  me  there  are  twenty-three  thousand  francs  lacking  ? 
Well  then!    I'll  find  them ;  they  are  elsewhere." 

And,  as  I  insisted  more  strongly:  "But  I  tell  you 
that  all  can  be  arranged!"  he  interrupted  with  im- 
patience; "It  was  only  to  see,  as  they  say,  to  the  bottom 
of  the  well,  and  now  it  is  done.  Twenty-three  thousand 
francs  deficit!  Well,  then,  that  is  good:  the  rest  I  will 
go  all  alone.  Let  us  dine,  my  old  friend;  I  am  as  hungry 
as  thirty  wolves." 

In  spite  of  this  last  affirmation  he  ate  hardly  anything; 
but  to  make  up  he  smoked  very  much  and  talked  still 
more ;  one  would  have  said  that  he  sought  to  forget  him- 
self. When  we  left  the  table  the  day  began  to  wane. 
Mauricet  gathered  his  papers,  put  them  in  order,  re- 
garded some  time  the  account  which  I  had  drawn  up 
as  if  he  had  been  able  to  read  it ;  he  said  nothing,  but  it 

[265] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

seemed  to  me  that  his  hand  trembled.  He  afterward 
put  them  all  upon  the  table  and  began  walking  again 
up  and  down  the  room,  and  finally  asked  where  our 
son  was ! 

Genevieve  turned  with  a  cry;  I  looked  him  in  the  face 
stupefied.  When  the  child  had  died  we  had  written 
him,  and  since  he  had  arrived  we  had  spoken  of  this 
loss;  he  perceived  his  distraction  and  took  his  head  be- 
tween his  hands. 

"What!  Is  there,  then,  no  more  brain  here!"  he 
murmured,  in  a  sort  of  rage.  "Pardon  me,  friends;  it 
is  the  fault  of  Peter  Henry;  he  has  made  me  drink  too 
much;  but  no  matter,  I  should  not  have  been  able  to 
forget  your  grief." 

He  sat  down  and  remained  some  time  in  deep  de- 
jection.    I  asked  him  again  if  his  affairs  disturbed  him. 

"Why  is  this?"  he  suddenly  continued.  "Have  I 
complained?  Have  I  asked  anything?"  And  soften- 
ing, all  at  once,  "Hold!  let  us  speak  not  any  more  of 
business,"  he  resumed;  "let  us  talk  of  you  and  Gene- 
vieve. You  are  always  happy;  is  it  not  true?  When 
one  loves,  when  one  is  young,  and  when  one  owes  noth- 
ing! Ah!  if  I  were  of  your  age,  I!  But  what!  Youth 
cannot  be  and  have  been;  each  one  his  turn.  I  have 
already  seen  go  by  a  part  of  those  of  my  time—your 
father  Jerome,  Madeleine,  and  many  others  still !  Away 
with  sadness!    Let  us  live  until  death  takes  us." 

I  was  astonished  at  these  signs  of  incoherence.    Mau- 
ricet  had  not  drunk  enough  to  be  affected  to  this  ex-, 
tent;  his  cheerfulness  did  not  reassure  me;  I  saw  in  him 
a  wandering  air  which  disturbed  me.    As  he  laughed 

[266] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

alone  he  soon  stopped.  Genevieve  spoke  gently  to  him 
of  his  children  in  the  country,  who  were  prospering  in 
a  small  way.  Then  he  softened  and  praised  them  at 
length;  afterward  he  broke  off  suddenly,  got  up  with  a 
desperate  effort,  and  said,  in  a  broken  voice : 

"Come,  come,  friends,  we  have  talked  enough;  the 
moment  has  come  for  me  to  attend  to  my  affairs." 

He  looked  some  time  for  his  hat,  which  was  before 
him,  fumbled  with  it  as  if  he  could  not  find  his  head, 
made  a  step  toward  the  door,  then  stopped  to  take  out 
his  watch,  which  he  placed  upon  his  papers. 

''I  had  better  leave  you  everything,"  he  said,  stam- 
mering; "  I  should  lose  them ;  it  is  safer  here." 

We  endeavored  to  retain  him.  He  refused.  I  then 
wished  to  go  with  him.  He  grew  angry  and  quickly 
left;  but,  getting  half-way  down  the  stairs,  he  re- 
turned. 

'^Come,  come,"  he  said,  "let  us  not  leave  each  other 
with  bad  feelings ! " 

He  embraced  my  wife,  pressed  my  hand,  and  dis- 
appeared. 

We  lingered  upon  the  landing,  much  disturbed. 
When  we  no  more  heard  his  steps  upon  the  stairs  Gene- 
vieve turned  quickly  toward  me. 

"Oh,  Peter  Henry,  there  is  something  the  matter  with 
him!"  she  said. 

"That  is  my  thought,"  I  responded. 

"We  must  not  leave  Mauricet  to  himself." 

"But  he  gets  angry  if  I  wish  to  follow  him." 

"Let  us  go  together,"  she  continued,  tying  her  bon- 
net and  putting  on  a  Httle  woolen  shawl. 

[267] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

I  ran  for  my  hat,  and  we  descended.  Night  had  come 
and  we  could  not  see  Mauricet.  We  took  our  course  to 
the  first  street  turning.  There,  by  good  luck,  we  recog- 
nized the  master-workman.  He  walked  with  a  step 
sometimes  quick,  sometimes  slow,  making  gestures, 
speaking  in  a  high  voice;  but  we  could  not  hear  what  he 
said.  He  followed  many  streets  at  hazard,  turning 
sometimes  upon  his  steps  like  a  man  who  takes  no  care 
about  his  route.  Finally  he  struck  the  markets,  and 
from  there  turned  toward  the  quays. 

Reaching  the  Pont  du  Chatelet  he  stopped  again, 
then  turned  suddenly  toward  one  of  the  slopes  which 
descend  to  the  river.  Genevieve  pressed  my  arm  with 
a  stifled  cry.  The  same  thought  had  come  to  us  both. 
We  ran  together.  The  night  was  already  black.  Mau- 
ricet glided  before  us  like  a  shadow.  He  was  hidden 
under  one  of  the  bridge  arches.  When  I  got  there  he 
had  taken  off  his  coat  and  was  approaching  the  water, 
which  swirled  in  a  great  whirlpool  at  the  foot  of  a  pier. 
He  heard  us  coming.  He  wished  to  throw  himself  in 
before  we  reached  him.  I  only  had  time  to  seize  him 
by  the  middle  of  the  body.  He  turned  with  a  curse, 
the  darkness  hindering  his  seeing  me;  he  recognized  me 
only  by  my  voice. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?  What  do  you  wish?" 
he  cried.  "Did  I  not  tell  you  to  leave  me  alone ?  Take 
away  your  hands,  Peter  Henry!  A  thousand  thunders! 
I  tell  you,  let  me  go!" 

"No,  I  shaU  not  leave  you!"  I  exclaimed,  trying  to 
force  him  back  toward  the  bank. 

He  made  an  effort  to  release  himself. 
[268] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

"But  you  do  not  comprehend,  wretch,  that  I  am 
ruined ! "  he  cried.  ''I  can  no  more  do  honor  to  my  sig- 
nature! Curse  the  day  that  I  learned  to  put  it  upon 
paper!  While  I  did  not  know  how  to  write  I  kept  my 
reputation  faithfully;  I  had  not  bound  myself  by  these 
notes,  which  God  confound!  But  now  the  thing  is 
done  there  is  no  more  going  back,  I  must  be  a  bank- 
rupt or  die.  I  have  chosen !  Do  not  oppose  me,  Peter 
Henry.  I  am  in  a  moment,  you  sec,  when  nothing  shall 
stop  me!  I  am  capable  of  anything.  In  the  name  of 
God,  or  of  the  devil,  leave  me!" 

He  struggled  with  fury.  In  spite  of  my  resistance  he 
would  have  escaped  me,  when  Genevieve  threw  her 
arms  around  his  neck  and  cried : 

"  Mauricet,  think  of  your  children ! " 

This  was  like  the  stroke  of  a  club.  The  unhappy 
man  groaned.  I  felt  him  totter,  and  he  fell  sitting  upon 
the  sand.  We  heard  him  weep.  Genevieve  knelt  at  one 
side,  I  on  the  other,  and  we  began  to  encourage  him, 
weeping  with  him  also ;  but  I  found  nothing  good  to  say 
to  him,  while  each  word  of  Genevieve  went  to  his  heart. 
There  is  nothing  like  the  women  for  this  science!  The 
master-workman,  a  moment  before  so  terrible,  was  now 
like  an  infant,  incapable  of  resistance.  He  told  us, 
sobbing,  all  that  he  had  suffered  in  the  past  eight  days 
since  he  began  to  see  clearly  into  his  affairs.  I  under- 
stood then  that  his  incapacity  to  keep  accounts  had  been 
the  true  cause  of  his  ruin.  Carried  away  by  the  current 
of  a  large  business,  nothing  had  warned  him  of  the 
danger,  and  he  only  knew  it  when  he  was  wrecked. 

I  profited  by  this  same  ignorance  to  persuade  Mauri- 
[269] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

cet  that  all  was  not  desperate ;  that  his  situation  offered 
resources  that  he  himself  knew  not,  and  that  the  ques- 
tion alone  was  to  disentangle  them.  The  master- work- 
man was  like  all  those  who  affect  to  scorn  writing  and 
figures;  at  the  bottom  he  believed  they  held  a  secret 
power  to  which  everything  must  give  way.  We  suc- 
ceeded then  in  bringing  him  back  to  our  house,  if  not 
consoled,  at  least  strengthened. 

In  truth,  the  peril  was  only  delayed.  I  knew  that 
by  the  next  day  the  bad  thoughts  would  return  to  him. 
I  feared,  above  all,  the  kind  of  shame  which  these 
would-be  suicides  have.  Lest  others  believe  that  they 
have  been  cowardly  they  return  to  their  first  intention 
with  obstinacy;  they  regard  death  as  the  sole  means  of 
proving  their  courage,  and  out  of  self-esteem  they  kill 
themselves!  I  warned  Genevieve,  who  promised  to 
watch  without  intermission.  In  fact,  she  alone  could 
do  it  without  irritating  Mauricet.  The  brave  hearts 
are  powerless  against  women  and  children. 

In  regard  to  myself,  I  had  to  see  what  could  be  done 
to  avoid  a  breakdown.  I  passed  a  part  of  the  night 
verifying  the  balance  of  the  master-mason,  but,  how- 
ever I  figured  and  repeated  the  calculations,  the  deficit 
remained  always  the  same.  In  continuing  the  business 
already  engaged  he  had  a  good  chance  of  recovering 
himself  and  "clearing  up,"  as  they  say  in  the  jargon  of 
the  trade.  But  for  that  it  was  necessary  to  have  money 
or  credit,  and  where  could  they  be  found  ?  I  had  very 
much  puzzled  my  brain  without  any  means  presenting 
itself.  I  tried  everywhere  the  next  day,  but  all  my  at- 
tempts were  useless.    I  was  sent  from  one  to  another 

[270] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

with  rude  rebuffs.  Seeing  me  take  so  much  heart  in  the 
affairs  of  Mauricet,  they  beHeved  me  interested,  and  I 
injured  him  without  serving  him. 

However,  I  persisted,  decided  to  do  my  duty  to  the 
end.  The  master-mason  had  fallen  into  a  mute  dis- 
couragement. One  could  not  expect  from  him  any 
effort  to  help  himself.  When  I  attempted  to  send  him 
out  he  said  to  me  simply,  "The  cords  to  my  legs  are  cut; 
leave  me  where  I  am ! " 

I  was  at  my  wits'  end,  when  I  recalled  the  rich  con- 
tractor who  had  formerly  encouraged  me  to  instruct 
myself.  I  had  often  thought  of  him  in  my  own  em- 
barrassment, but  without  wishing  to  ask  aid  from  him. 
I  always  recalled  our  first  interview,  in  which  he  had 
proved  to  me  that  success  was  the  recompense  of  zeal 
and  of  talent.  Confessing  to  him  that  I  had  failed  was 
to  admit  that  I  had  shown  neglect  or  incapacity.  Right 
or  wrong,  I  had  always  recoiled  from  exposing  myself 
to  this  confusion.     For  Mauricet  I  had  less  scruple. 

I  feared  that  the  millionaire  had  forgotten  my  face, 
but  at  the  first  glance  of  the  eye  he  recognized  me.  That 
was  something ;  yet  I  was  troubled  when  it  was  necessary 
for  me  to  tell  him  the  motive  of  my  visit.  I  had  well 
prepared  my  story;  at  the  moment  of  uttering  it  I  be- 
came confused.  The  contractor  comprehended  that  I 
was  in  business  trouble  and  that  I  came  to  him  asking 
money.  I  saw  him  raise  his  eyebrows  and  tighten  his 
lips  like  a  man  who  would  express  defiance.  This  sud- 
denly gave  me  back  my  courage. 

''Pray  notice  that  I  do  not  come  for  myself,"  I  ex- 
claimed, "but  for  a  brave  companion  who  has  been  to 

[271] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

me  almost  a  father  and  whom  you  know — my  friend 
Mauricet.  What  he  asks  of  you  is  neither  an  advance 
nor  a  sacrifice,  but  only  to  save  him  from  the  shame  of  a 
failure  without  doing  you  any  harm.  It  is  the  question 
of  a  good  action  which  perhaps  will  bring  you  nothing, 
but  which  should  not  cost  you  anything." 

"Let  me  see,"  said  the  contractor,  who  continued  to 
regard  me. 

I  then  explained  to  him  rapidly  all  the  affair  without 
making  words,  but  without  losing  the  thread  of  my  dis- 
course, and  like  one  capitalist  who  converses  with  his 
equal.  By  force  of  will  I  had  risen  above  myself.  He 
listened  to  all,  asked  me  many  questions,  demanded  the 
papers  in  the  case,  and  told  me  to  come  back  the  next 
day. 

I  went  away  hopeless.  The  thing  seemed  so  clear 
that  he  could  not  put  off  responding  if  he  had  wished 
to  accept.  This  adjournment  had  certainly  no  other 
end  than  of  giving  to  the  refusal  an  appearance  of  re- 
flection.    I  returned,  however,  upon  the  hour  agreed. 

"I  have  examined  everything,"  the  contractor  said  to 
me.  "Your  calculations  are  right.  I  will  take  charge 
of  the  affair.  You  can  tell  Mauricet  to  come  and  see 
me.  He  is  a  brave  man,  and  we  will  find  some  em- 
ployment for  him  which  shall  satisfy  him." 


[272] 


CHAPTER  XII 

AT  MONTMORENCY 

JFTER  the  departure  of  Mauricet  I 
busied  myself  winding  up  my  own 
affairs.  Justice  had  finally  pro- 
nounced, and  I  could  free  myself. 
My  debts  were  paid,  all  I  had  left  was 
some  stamped  paper,  I  had  satisfied 
all  my  engagements  but  I  found  my- 
self for  the  second  time  penniless. 
I  was  going  to  take  up  the  trowel  again  when  an  archi- 
tect, under  whom  I  had  worked,  proposed  that  I  should 
quit  Paris  and  establish  myself  at  Montmorency.  He 
assured  me  work  there  for  the  season  and  promised  to 
push  me. 

"It  is  a  good  place,"  he  said  to  me.  "There  is  only 
one  master-mason,  a  good  workman,  but  brutal,  and 
whom  one  employs  for  lack  of  a  better.  With  a  little 
effort  the  better  part  of  the  work  will  come  to  you. 
Here  you  will  always  vegetate  between  the  great  con- 
tractors, who  will  suppress  you.  It  is  better  to  be  a  tree 
among  bushes  than  a  bush  in  the  forest." 

I  too  well  felt  these  reasons  to  hesitate.  All  was  soon 
concluded.  The  architect  took  me  to  the  work,  ex- 
plained what  I  should  do,  and  I  returned  to  Paris  to 
fetch  Genevieve. 

i8  [273] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

The  moment  of  departure  was  hard.  It  was  the  first 
tiftie  that  I  had  left  the  great  city  to  Hve !  I  was  accus- 
tomed to  its  dirt  and  its  pavements,  as  the  peasant  is  to 
verdure  or  the  odor  of  hay.  I  had  my  famihar  streets 
where  I  passed  every  day.  My  eye  was  accustomed  to 
the  people  and  to  the  houses.  All  were  become  by  long 
usage  like  a  part  of  myself.  To  abandon  Paris  was  to 
get  away  from  at  the  same  time  my  tastes,  my  recollec- 
tions, my  entire  life.  The  neighbors  who  had  known 
us  for  a  long  time  came  to  their  doors  to  bid  us  adieu. 
Some  of  them  pitied  us!  This  made  me  assume  a 
cheerful  face.  I  greeted  them  laughingly.  For  nothing 
in  the  world  would  I  let  them  see  my  sadness.  I  very 
well  felt  that  this  forced  departure  was  a  humiliation. 
It  proved  that  bad  luck  had  been  stronger  than  myself. 
I  wished  to  protest  against  the  defeat  by  having  the  ap- 
pearance of  not  feeling  it.  As  for  Genevieve,  who  had 
fewer  regrets,  she  did  not  try  to  hide  her  tears.  Loaded 
with  baskets  and  packages,  the  poor  woman  responded 
to  all  the  salutations  and  all  the  wishes  of  a  happy  jour- 
ney by  thanks  accompanied  with  sighs.  She  stopped  at 
each  door  to  embrace  the  children  for  the  last  time.  I 
was  impatient  at  these  delays,  and  I  went  along  whis- 
tling in  order  to  keep  myself  in  countenance.  Finally, 
at  the  turn  of  the  street,  when  the  last  house  of  the  fau- 
bourg had  disappeared,  I  breathed  more  freely. 

Genevieve  had  rejoined  me.    We  climbed  together 
into  the  wagon  which  carried  our  poor  furnishings  and 
took  the  road  to  Montmorency.    God  knows  how  many 
maledictions  I  addressed  to  myself  on  the  way  at  the 
slowness  of  the  horses  and  at  the  halts  of  the  driver. 

[274] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

The  blood  boiled  in  my  veins.  Yet  I  kept  quiet.  I 
feared  that  if  I  spoke  I  should  say  too  much.  Gene- 
vieve felt  like  myself.  At  last  we  reached  the  place  as 
the  day  closed. 

The  little  lodging  which  I  had  taken  was  at  the  end 
of  the  village,  in  a  narrow  street  where  the  wagon  had 
trouble  to  pass.  I  opened  the  door  with  a  pang  at  my 
heart.  I  motioned  Genevieve  to  enter,  and  I  returned 
to  aid  the  carrier  unload  the  furniture.  I  did  not  wish 
to  see  the  disappointment  of  the  poor  woman  over  our 
miserable  habitation. 

She  comprehended,  without  doubt,  what  I  felt,  for 
she  reappeared  soon  upon  the  threshold  with  a  smile, 
declaring  that  it  was  all  she  could  wish.  She  aided  in 
carrying  things  and  putting  them  in  place.  When  we 
had  finished,  the  night  had  shut  down,  the  wagon  de- 
parted, and  we  were  alone. 

Our  quarters  were  upon  the  ground  floor,  which  was 
lower  than  the  street  itself.  The  floors  had  formerly 
been  paved,  but  the  broken  tiles  formed  now  a  kind  of 
uneven  and  dirty  macadam.  A  little  window,  opening 
upon  the  court  of  a  neighbor,  let  in  smoky  odors,  and  a 
high  chimney,  which  occupied  almost  all  the  width  of 
the  gable,  let  fall  thick  volumes  of  smoke.  I  contem- 
plated this  sad  den  with  a  sort  of  stupor.  Whether  I 
had  badly  judged  at  the  first  appearance,  whether  my 
disposition  was  different,  I  now  found  an  unwhole- 
someness  and  dilapidation  which  had  not  at  first  struck 
me.  Our  furnishings  put  in  place  and  the  presence  of 
Genevieve,  far  from  making  the  place  cheerful,  seemed 
to  make  it  more  gloomy.    Adorned  with  all  that  could 

[275] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

embellish  it,  the  lodging  left  no  possible  room  for  doubt 
and  showed  itself  in  its  actual  ugliness.  In  spite  of  her 
efforts  to  appear  satisfied  Genevieve  felt  an  uncom- 
fortableness  which  she  could  not  hide.  She  had  seated 
herself  by  the  hearth,  supporting  her  elbows  upon  her 
knees,  and  looking  in  a  fixed  way  before  her.  I  was  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room  with  crossed  arms.  A  little 
candle  burning  low  in  a  tin  candlestick  gave  us  enough 
light  to  let  us  see  our  sadness.  Genevieve  was  the  first 
to  rouse  out  of  this  depression.  She  got  up,  sighing, 
sought  the  basket  of  provisions  which  she  had  brought 
from  Paris,  and  began  to  lay  the  table-cloth.  But  bread 
was  wanting.    I  went  out  to  buy  it. 

The  baker's  shop  was  some  distance  off;  when  I  en- 
tered many  neighbors  were  gathered  upon  the  thresh- 
old ;  they  were  listening  to  a  large  man  who  spoke  very 
loudly  and  with  an  appearance  of  anger.  I  paid  no  at- 
tention at  first,  while  I  waited  for  the  loaf  which  some 
one  had  gone  to  get  in  the  back  shop,  when  I  heard  my 
name  pronounced  by  the  large  man. 

''He  names  himself  Peter  Henry,  called  the  Con- 
scientious," he  exclaimed;  "but  you  may  wring  my 
neck  if  I  don't  change  his  name  into  that  of  the  Fam- 
ished. Even  if  I  have  to  sell  my  last  shirt  I  will  make 
him  more  bother  and  do  him  more  mischief  than  are 
necessary  to  ruin  him!" 

"In  fact,  if  we  let  these  Parisians  establish  themselves 
in  the  country  they  will  eat  our  bread  to  the  last  mouth- 
ful," observed  a  neighbor,  from  whose  black  hands  I 
recognized  a  blacksmith. 

"Without  taking  into  account  that  they  always  end 
[276] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

in  bankruptcy,"  added  the  grocer.  "In  proof,  there  is 
the  watchmaker  from  the  great  city,  who  has  gone  ofl 
without  paying  me." 

"And  look  you,  the  new  master-mason  will  not  have 
a  better  memoiy,"  resumed  the  large  man.  "It  is  my 
opinion  that  he  is  some  sharper  who  has  come  here  to 
hide  from  the  police." 

Until  now  I  had  listened  without  knowing  whether  I 
ought  to  have  the  appearance  of  hearing;  but  at  these 
last  words  the  blood  mounted  to  my  head  and  I  turned 
toward  the  door. 

"Peter  Henry  has  no  need  of  hiding  from  anybody," 
I  exclaimed,  "and  the  proof  is  that  it  is  he  who  speaks 
to  you." 

There  was  a  general  movement  among  the  specta- 
tors.   The  large  man  approached  the  doorsill. 

"Ah!  ah!  do  we  see  the  bird  here?"  he  said,  regard- 
ing me  with  an  insolent  air.  "Well,  I  should  not  have 
recognized  him  from  the  plumage;  for  a  master  from 
the  great  city  he  has  an  appearance  a  little  too  simple." 

"You  shall  see  from  the  work  I  know  how  to  do,"  I 
replied,  sharply.  "Insults  only  prove  jealousy  or  mal- 
ice; it  is  by  his  work  that  the  workman  must  be 
judged." 

"It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  any  one  wishes  your 
work,"  resumed  the  master-mason,  gruffly.  "You 
have  taken  away  from  me  one  customer;  but  if  you  take 
away  a  second,  as  true  as  I  am  named  Jean  Ferou  I 
will  break  your  back  at  the  first  chance." 

I  felt  that  I  became  pale,  not  from  fear,  but  from 
vexation.    This  large  face,  red  with  anger,  and  those 

[277] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

little  gray  eyes,  which  shot  out  menace,  stirred  my 
blood.    I  looked  the  master-mason  in  the  face. 

"We  shall  see  about  that.  Master  Ferou!"  I  replied, 
restraining  myself.  "The  people  whom  one  wishes  to 
crush  do  not  always  allow  it.  Until  now  I  have  de- 
fended my  skin  against  many  a  bad  fellow,  and  I  shall 
hope  not  to  leave  it  at  Montmorency." 

"Well,  then,  all  right!"  cried  the  master-mason,  who 
pushed  back  his  cap.  "We  shall  see  what  you  know  how 
to  do  with  your  fists.  I'll  settle  the  matter  here  and 
now,  and  it  shall  not  be  said  that  Jean  Ferou  will  let  the 
grass  be  cut  under  his  feet  by  a  bungler  from  Paris." 

I  did  not  respond;  my  anger  increased,  and  I  felt 
near  exploding.  I  quickly  took  the  bread  which  I  had 
come  to  buy,  and  was  going  out,  when  the  baker  de- 
manded payment.  I  replied  that  I  had  put  the  money 
on  the  counter;  but  the  baker  declared  that  he  had  not 
received  it.  A  dispute  ensued,  which  the  interference 
of  the  master-mason  helped  to  sharpen.  Feeling  my 
honor  at  stake,  I  sustained  my  affirmation  with  per- 
sistence. In  the  heat  of  the  strife  a  little  girl  who  was 
present  declared,  in  a  low  voice,  that  I  held  the  money 
hidden  between  my  fingers.  I  quickly  opened  my 
hand;  was  it  truly  there?  In  my  trouble  I  had  taken 
from  the  counter  a  twelve-sous  piece  and  held  it  without 
knowing  it ! 

The  movement  among  the  spectators  at  this  revela- 
tion made  me  dizzy.  I  wished  to  stammer  an  explana- 
tion, but,  feeling  myself  suspected,  I  was  in  doubt.  I 
was  unknown,  surrounded  by  ill-disposed  people,  with- 
out any  means  of  proving  that  my  error  had  been  invol- 

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A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

untary.  I  comprehended  that  all  my  justifications  were 
useless;  so,  suddenly  cutting  short,  I  paid  the  baker 
and  turned  to  leave. 

The  master-mason  stood  at  the  opening  of  the  door, 
one  shoulder  leaning  against  the  casing  and  his  feet 
propped  against  the  other  side.  He  sneeringly  regarded 
me. 

"Missed  the  trick!"  he  said  to  me,  ironically;  "for 
to-day  he  has  to  pay  for  his  bread  at  the  regular  price." 

"Let  me  pass!"  I  cried,  out  of  patience. 

"Why!  why!"  he  resumed,  in  a  tone  more  and  more 
provoking,  "one  would  say  that  the  Parisian  gets 
angry." 

"The  Parisian  has  had  enough  of  your  insults,"  I  re- 
plied, trembling  with  anger,  "and  you  must  make 
room," 

"  Truly !    And  if  I  don't  wish  to  ?  " 

"Then  I'll  make  it!" 

"Ah,  indeed!    Come  on,  then!" 

I  advanced  resolutely  to  him ;  he  was  leaning  against 
the  wall  with  crossed  arms. 

"Jean  Ferou,  will  you  let  me  go  out?"  I  demanded, 
with  closed  fists. 

"No,"  he  said,  sneeringly. 

I  seized  him  by  the  arm  and  pushed  him  roughly  to 
force  him  to  make  room  for  me. 

He  doubtless  did  not  expect  such  boldness,  for  he  was 
on  the  point  of  losing  his  balance ;  but  he  regained  him- 
self immediately  with  an  oath,  turned  upon  me  with 
raised  hand,  and  struck  me  a  blow  on  the  head  which 
stunned  me.    I  endeavored  to  put  myself  on  the  defen- 

[279] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

sive,  and  sustained  the  struggle  until  I  tripped  against 
the  doorsill,  drawing  the  master-mason  in  my  downfall. 
Falling  under  him,  I  soon  felt  his  knees  upon  my  chest, 
while  his  fists  pounded  my  face.  The  spectators,  who 
had  let  him  alone  until  then,  decided,  finally,  to  sepa- 
rate us.  They  pulled  Master  Ferou  off  from  me  with 
trouble ;  they  put  under  my  arm  the  bread  which  I  had 
bought,  showed  me  the  road,  and  I  mechanically  took 
the  way  to  my  lodging. 

I  went  like  a  drunken  man;  all  my  limbs  ached,  and 
I  was  broken-hearted.  At  the  sight  of  the  house  I  re- 
laxed my  steps;  I  feared  the  questionings  of  Gene- 
vieve when  she  should  see  my  bruised  and  bloody  face. 
I  could  not  sustain  the  idea  of  relating  to  her  the  humil- 
iations which  I  had  suffered.  Happily,  she  had  yielded 
to  the  day's  fatigue ;  I  found  her  in  bed  and  asleep. 

I  hastened  to  put  out  the  candle,  which  still  burned, 
and  got  into  bed.  But  I  sought  sleep  in  vain;  I  was  de- 
voured by  a  furious  rage.  Hate  of  the  master-mason 
possessed  me;  I  wished  him  now  all  the  evil  that  he 
had  wished  to  do  to  me;  I  sought  by  what  means  I 
could  injure  him  and  revenge  myself.  Everything  else 
was  indifferent  to  me.  I  inwardly  demanded  the  aid  of 
the  good  God  against  my  enemy.  Reflection,  instead 
of  calming  me,  excited  my  bad  thoughts  more  and 
more.  My  rancor  was  like  an  abyss  which  increased  in 
depth  the  more  I  gave  way  to  it.  If  I  slept  from  time 
to  time  it  was  to  dream  angry  dreams.  Sometimes  I 
saw  Master  Ferou  ruined,  with  the  beggar's  sack  upon 
his  shoulder;  sometimes  I  had  him  under  my  feet,  where 
he  held  me,  and  I  forced  him  to  cry  for  mercy;  at  other 

[280] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

times  I  saw  him  with  bound  hands  between  four  gen- 
darmes, who  led  him  to  the  prison  for  thieves  while  I 
showered  upon  him  insults  and  jeers. 

In  the  midst  of  these  nightmares  I  was  awakened 
with  a  start  by  Genevieve.  I  sat  upright  in  bed;  a 
great  light  shone  into  our  dwelling ;  we  heard  outside  a 
tumult  of  voices,  the  noise  of  people  who  seemed  to  be 
running.  Then  the  cry  "Fire!  fire!"  resounded.  I 
jumped  from  the  end  of  the  bed,  hastily  dressed,  and 
went  out.     Two  men  came  running  along  the  street. 

"Where  is  the  fire?"  I  asked. 

"At  the  yard  of  Jean  Ferou,"  they  responded,  both 
together. 

I  suddenly  stopped.  One  would  have  said  that  God 
had  heard  my  prayers,  and  that  He  had  taken  it  upon 
himself  to  revenge  me.  I  must  confess  it  now,  the  first 
feeling  was  that  of  satisfaction ;  but  it  lasted  no  longer 
than  a  flash;  almost  at  once  I  felt  remorse  for  my  joy. 
With  the  return  of  better  feeling  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
was  more  obliged  than  any  one  else  to  help  the  master- 
mason  and  to  compensate  by  action  my  evil  wishes. 
This  idea  was  like  a  flame  darting  through  my  heart. 
I  ran  at  once  with  the  people  who  were  passing  and 
reached  Ferou 's  yard. 

The  fire,  at  first  confined  to  a  shed,  had  soon  spread. 
At  the  moment  of  my  arrival  the  piles  of  beams  and  bat- 
tens formed  around  the  house  a  circle  of  flame  which 
hindered  approach.  Workmen  ran  in  the  midst  of  the 
smoke  taking  away  the  burning  material.  I  joined 
them,  and  we  finally  cleared  a  passage.  Reaching  the 
house,  we  found  it  locked.    Some  one  cried  that  Jean 

[281] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

F^rou  ought  to  be  with  his  brother  at  Andilly,  but  many 
others  responded  that  they  recognized  him  that  same 
evening  in  the  village;  one  of  them  had  even  seen  him 
enter,  as  he  said,  with  "a  drop  of  tea  in  his  head  and  a 
bottle  under  the  arm."  Drunk  and  asleep,  he  had, 
without  doubt,  heard  nothing. 

Meanwhile  the  danger  became  more  and  more  press- 
ing. The  fire,  which  was  extending  from  behind,  had 
passed  already  to  the  roof  of  the  house.  We  knocked 
in  vain  at  the  closed  door;  we  called  the  master-mason 
with  all  the  strength  of  our  lungs;  there  was  no  re- 
sponse! At  this  moment  there  was  above  our  heads  a 
frightful  cracking,  and  the  loosened  tiles  began  to  fall 
with  a  shower  of  embers.  The  roof  had  fallen ;  every- 
body fled.  Jean  Ferou,  at  last  awakened,  appeared  at 
one  of  the  windows. 

Surprised  in  his  drunkenness,  and  still  confused,  he 
looked  out  with  exclamations  of  fright  without  seeming 
to  comprehend  his  plight.  Everybody  shouted  to  him 
at  the  same  time  to  come  down  and  flee;  but  the  un- 
happy man,  beside  himself,  continued  to  watch  the 
flames  which  ran  across  the  yard,  repeating,  with  a 
lamenting  accent,  ' '  The  fire !  the  fire ! ' ' 

Two  or  three  of  us  decided  to  return  to  the  house. 
The  fire  began  already  to  break  through  the  floors. 
We  shouted  to  the  master-mason  that  the  least  delay 
would  cost  him  his  life.  He  seemed  finally  to  compre- 
hend, for  he  quickly  reentered,  as  if  he  had  decided  to 
reach  the  door,  and  we  drew  near  to  aid  him.  From 
the  sparks  which  gushed  across  the  shutters  of  the 
ground-floor  we  saw  that  the  flames  had  invaded  at  the 

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A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

same  time  both  the  lower  story  as  well  as  the  upper. 
Jean  Ferou  soon  reappeared  at  the  window,  crying  that 
the  stairs  were  on  fire  and  demanded  a  ladder.  Some 
ran  to  seek  one;  but  in  the  midst  of  this  disorder  and 
destruction  it  seemed  doubtful  if  they  could  find  it  in 
time.  The  fire  on  the  lower  story  increased  rapidly; 
instead  of  snapping,  the  flames  began  to  roaf  in  the  in- 
terior like  a  furnace.  Jean  Ferou,  loaded  with  papers 
and  bags  of  money,  was  astride  the  window-sill,  crying 
for  some  one  to  aid  him  in  descending;  but  those  who 
were  nearest  remained  immovable  through  fright  or 
lack  of  power.  All  at  once  I  felt  myself  seized  with  a 
courageous  spirit;  the  idea  of  the  danger  disappeared, 
and  I  only  saw  that  there  was  a  man  to  be  saved. 

I  ran  to  one  of  the  windows  of  the  ground-floor,  and 
by  the  aid  of  a  shutter  I  reached  the  cornice  of  the  first 
story.  There  my  shoulders  were  almost  on  a  level  with 
the  feet  of  the  master-mason;  I  cried  to  him  to  let  them 
serve  him  as  a  point  of  support.  Ferou,  whom  the  sit- 
uation had  sobered,  did  not  need  to  be  told  a  second 
time.  Drawing  his  legs  through  the  window,  he  slipped 
down  upon  me.  His  weight  at  first  made  me  lose  my 
balance;  I  tottered,  but,  clutching  at  the  wall,  I  sunk 
my  nails  in  the  joints  of  the  stones,  to  which  I  held  by 
a  strong  effort,  and  the  mason,  using  my  body  for  a 
ladder,  reached  the  ground  without  accident. 

It  was  only  when  I  had  rejoined  him  that  he  recog- 
nized me.  He  started  back  several  steps,  carried  his 
hand  to  his  head,  and  after  stammering  some  vague 
words  which  I  could  not  understand  seated  himself 
upon  the  remains  of  a  charred  beam  which  still  smoked. 

[283] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

So  many  events  in  quick  succession  had  astounded 
him;  he  was  without  strength  to  express  himself  or  to 
give  thanks.  Perhaps  he  also  lacked  the  will.  Jean 
Ferou  had  a  heart  whose  sentiments  were  as  difficult  to 
draw  out  as  the  angles  in  a  stone.  Even  not  to  treat 
one  as  an  enemy  required  an  effort.  His  wife  had  been 
obliged  to  leave  him  after  eighteen  years  of  torment 
and  of  patience;  his  children  had  sought  outside  of  his 
home  the  bread  of  strangers,  and  of  all  those  with  whom 
he  had  worked  and  lived  not  one  was  his  friend.  Under 
obligations  to  me  after  the  fire  in  his  timber-yard,  he 
refrained  from  injuring  me ;  but  that  was  all.  When  I 
met  him  he  passed  along  as  if  he  had  not  seen  me;  if 
any  one  spoke  to  him  of  me  he  said  nothing,  or  sud- 
denly left;  the  bear  had  simply  quit  biting  without  be- 
coming tamed. 

Happily  the  witnesses  of  the  service  rendered  com- 
pensated me  for  this  coldness.  They  told  how  I  had 
conducted  myself  with  the  master-mason,  and  they  felt 
all  the  more  good -will  when  they  learned  at  the  same 
time  what  I  had  suffered  from  him  the  previous  evening. 
Simply  doing  my  duty  appeared  like  generosity,  and 
every  one  paid  me  in  esteem  what  Jean  Ferou  had  re- 
fused me  in  gratitude. 

After  struggling  along  two  years  the  master-mason 
suddenly  left  the  country  without  saying  anything,  and 
I  have  never  heard  him  mentioned  since. 

Soon  a  son  and  a  daughter  consoled  us  for  the  loss  of 
our  first  child.  Love,  joy,  comfort,  and  health  formed 
the  four  corners  of  our  home.    Genevieve  sang  all  the 

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A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

day ;  the  little  ones  grew  and  prattled ;  the  money  came 
of  itself  to  our  box;  good  luck  shone  upon  us  like  a 
cloudless  sun.  I  can  say  that  this  time  was  the  happi- 
est of  all  my  life,  for  it  was  then  that  I  best  felt  God's 
kindness.  At  length  one  gets  accustomed  to  happiness 
and  claims  it  as  the  payment  of  a  debt,  instead  of  re- 
ceiving it  as  a  gift ;  but  then  I  was  not  spoiled  by  Provi- 
dence; I  had  still  upon  my  lips  the  bitterness  of  pain 
and  misery,  which  made  me  feel  all  the  better  the  good 
taste  of  the  bread  of  prosperity. 


[285] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

PROSPEROUS   YEARS 

fHE  first  five  years  of  our  establishment 
at  Montmorency  have  not  left  many 
recollections.  I  simply  recall  that 
work  became  more  and  more  plentiful, 
and  those  who  had  the  appearance  of 
scorning  me  when  I  first  came  no  lon- 
ger passed  me  without  carrying  their 
hands  to  their  hats.  I  was  thenceforth 
a  personage  in  the  country.  Having  leased  the  build- 
ing-yard of  my  old  competitor  I  was  established  there 
with  Genevieve.  We  had  carpeted  the  house,  repainted 
the  old  ceilings,  hung  the  windows  with  white  curtains, 
planted  Bengal  roses  on  both  sides  of  the  door.  One 
corner  of  the  lot  had  been  set  off  into  a  garden.  There 
my  wife  planted  flowers  and  dried  her  linen;  she  had 
caught  there  a  stray  swarm  of  bees  which  at  length 
gave  us  many  hives.  Our  son  and  daughter  grew  like 
poplars,  running  among  our  flower-borders  and  sing- 
ing in  a  way  to  silence  the  birds.  Tranquillity  and 
happiness  had  settled  upon  our  home.  I  recollect  this 
time  only  by  a  vexation  which  very  soon  became  a 
pleasure. 

It  was  at  the  birth  of  the  little  Marianne.    We  had 
for  neighbor  a  Paris  lady  worth  one  hundred  thousand 

r  286  1 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

francs,  and  good  in  proportion — a  true  providence  for 
all  who  approached  her.  I  had  built  walls  in  her  park 
to  her  entire  satisfaction,  and  she  had,  besides,  taken  a 
liking  for  Genevieve,  who  had  laundered  her  linen. 
So  two  or  three  months  before  the  birth  of  the  little  one 
she  asked  to  be  its  godmother — an  offer  which  the 
mother  and  I  gratefully  accepted.  The  child  came  into 
the  world  with  good  promise  of  living;  and  I  was  in  the 
happiness  of  the  first  moment  when  Mauricet  visited 
us.  I  had  not  seen  the  master-workman  since  his  un- 
happy experience  in  Paris;  but  I  knew  that  the  con- 
tractor who  employed  him  had  made  his  place  com- 
fortable, and  that  he  had  once  more  taken  up  life  with  a 
good  heart.  Indeed,  I  found  him  as  talkative,  as  jovial, 
and  as  active  as  in  his  best  days;  age  had  simply  made 
him  a  little  stouter.  He  embraced  us  again  and  again, 
and  could  not  keep  from  weeping. 

"I  have  seen  your  yard,"  he  said  to  me,  both  hands 
resting  upon  my  shoulders,  with  his  humid  eyes  close 
to  mine;  "it  seems  that  you  are  making  things  go,  my 
boy.  You  are  making  provisions  for  the  winter  of  old 
age.  That  is  well,  my  fine  fellow!  The  success  of 
friends  does  me  good!" 

I  answered  him  that  everything,  indeed,  went  for- 
ward as  I  wished,  and  I  rapidly  explained  to  him  my 
position.  He  listened  to  me,  seated  near  the  bed  of 
Genevieve,  our  little  Jacques  upon  his  knees,  and  look- 
ing at  the  new  arrival  which  slept  in  its  cradle. 

"Well,  hurrah!"  he  cried,  when  I  had  finished; 
"brave  people  ought  to  prosper;  that  does  honor  to  the 
good  God!    I  wanted  to  know  where  you  were,  and 

[287] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

that  is  why  I  have  asked  of  the  patron  a  few  holi- 
days." 

"So  you  will  remain  with  us,"  said  Genevieve,  with 
a  visible  satisfaction. 

"If  that  is  what  you  wish,"  replied  Mauricet.  "I 
have  come  only  to  see  you.  After  so  long  a  separation 
I  hungered  and  thirsted  for  you." 

He  took  me  again  by  the  hands. 

"And  then,"  he  added,  turning  toward  my  wife,  "I 
knew  that  there  was  a  little  one  in  the  cradle,  and  I  have 
nursed  an  idea — an  idea  which  has  rejoiced  me  for 
three  months." 

"What  idea?"  asked  Genevieve. 

"That  of  bringing  you  a  godfather  for  the  in- 
fant." 

"A  godfather?" 

"And  behold  him!"  he  finished,  slapping  his  breast. 
"You  will  never  find  one  of  better  will,  nor  one  who 
loves  you  more." 

Genevieve  could  not  restrain  an  uneasy  movement, 
and  we  exchanged  glances;  Mauricet  noticed  it. 

"Have  I  come  too  late?"  he  demanded.  "Have 
you  already  chosen?" 

"A  godfather— no,"  stammered  the  mother;  "we 
have  only  a  godmother." 

"Then  that  is  right,"  resumed  the  master- workman. 
"You  will  present  her  to  me.  Meeting  you  again  here, 
you  see,  gives  me  a  taste  for  mirth.  We  must  enjoy  our- 
selves to  the  utmost!  I  wish  a  model  baptism,  with 
sugar-plums  and  rabbit-stew.  Ah!  come  now,  the  god- 
mother is  not  disagreeable  at  least?" 

[288] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

I  replied  with  a  little  embarrassment  that  it  was 
Madame  Lefort,  our  rich  neighbor. 

*'A  lady!"  repeated  Mauricet;  "excuse  her  insig- 
nificance a  little.  Here  is  an  honor!  Then  I  must 
know  how  to  carry  myself.  But  be  calm;  I  know  how 
to  have  a  certain  style  upon  occasions.  I  will  buy  a 
pair  of  knit  gloves!" 

We  had  not  had  time  to  reply  when  the  neighbor  her- 
self entered.  I  was  for  a  moment  speechless;  Gene- 
vieve raised  herself  in  bed.  The  position  became  truly 
embarrassing.  It  was  becoming  still  more  so,  when 
Madame  Lefort  recalled  the  promise  which  she  had 
made  us,  and  declared  that  she  had  come  to  have  an 
understanding  with  us  in  regard  to  the  godfather. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Mauricet,  straightening  himself; 
"a  godfather?  Present!  I  have  come  for  that  from 
Burgundy.  Is  this  madame  whom  I  see  and  who  ought 
to  be  my  friend  ?  I  am  delighted  with  the  favor !  We 
must  have  an  understanding  about  the  sugar-plums." 

Madame  Lefort  looked  at  us  in  astonishment.  Gene- 
vieve had  become  very  red,  and  picked  at  the  down  of 
her  coverlet  without  daring  to  raise  her  eyes.  There 
was  a  continued  silence,  during  which  Mauricet,  who 
noticed  nothing,  trotted  Jacques  upon  his  knee  to  the 
familiar  ditty: 

"To  Paris,  to  Paris, 
Upon  a  horse  of  gray; 
To  Rouen,  to  Rouen, 
Upon  a  horse  of  brown." 

"This  changes  everything,"  the  neighbor  finally  said 
in  a  tone  a  little  dry.     "I  came  to  propose  naming  the 
19  [  289  ] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

infant  with  my  brother,  the  prefect's  counsel.  I  was 
not  aware  that  you  had  made  your  choice  without  my 
knowledge." 

"Will  Madame  excuse  us?"  I  responded;  "we  had 
thought  of  no  one;  it  is  the  master- workman,  who,  in 
arriving,  just  now  made  us  the  proposition." 

"And  we  intended  to  speak  to  Madame,"  added 
Genevieve. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  interrupted  Mauricet;  "I  do  not 
wish  to  inconvenience  any  one.  What  I  have  said  was 
from  affection.  I  would  have  liked  to  name  the  little 
one,  seeing  that  a  goddaughter  is  half  a  daughter;  but 
my  good-will  ought  not  to  do  her  harm,  and  if  Peter 
Henry  finds  a  better  he  must  not  inconvenience  him- 
self." 

He  was  slowly  getting  up ;  the  jovial  expression  on  his 
good  face  had  disappeared.  Genevieve  and  I  made  to- 
gether a  gesture  to  retain  him ;  we  had  taken  our  resolu- 
tion with  the  same  heart. 

"Stay!"  I  exclaimed;  "one  can  never  find  a  better 
than  an  old  friend  like  you." 

"Especially  as  Madame  Lefort  knows  you,"  added 
Genevieve. 

And  turning  toward  the  neighbor  with  a  supplicating 
smile:  "It  is  the  brave  Mauricet,"  she  continued,  "the 
old-time  tutor  of  Peter  Henry,  of  whom  I  have  often 
spoken  to  Madame ;  he  who  has  helped  him,  after  God, 
to  be  an  honest  man.  When  Mother  Madeleine  died 
he  led  the  mourners,  and  when  we  were  married  he  led 
us  to  the  church.  In  happiness,  as  in  sadness,  he  has 
always  been  with  us.    Madame  will  comprehend  that 

[290] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

he  has  a  right  to  continue  his  profession  of  protector 
toward  our  children." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Madame  Lefort,  whose  face 
had  regained  its  serenity;  "the  new  friends  ought  not 
to  usurp  the  place  of  the  old.  Monsieur  Mauricet, 
we  shall  name  him  together." 

"Well,  then,"  cried  the  master-mason,  touched  even 
to  tears,  "I  will  say  that  you  are  a  fine  woman!  But 
you  shall  not  regret  what  you  have  done,  for  if  I  am  in 
the  rough,  like  the  wood  not  yet  squared,  I  know  what 
one  owes  to  well-born  people.  Madame  has  nothing  to 
fear;  she  shall  be  satisfied  with  me." 

Our  neighbor  smiled  and  changed  the  conversation. 
She  showed  herself  very  polite  with  Mauricet,  who,  after 
her  departure,  declared  that  she  was  the  queen  of  great 
ladies.  In  regard  to  us,  he  pressed  our  hands  in  his 
own  with  an  expression  of  gratitude  which  affected  me. 

"Thanks,  friends,"  he  said  to  us  in  a  voice  full  of 
feeling;  "if  I  should  live  a  hundred  years  you  shall  see 
that  I  will  never  forget  this  hour!  You  have  not  been 
ashamed  of  your  old  comrade,  and  you  have  risked  for 
him  the  loss  of  a  rich  patronage.  It  was  brave,  it  was 
just.    God  will  recompense  you." 

The  baptism  passed  off  to  the  satisfaction  of  every- 
body. Mauricet  had  the  manners  of  a  prefect,  and 
Madame  Lefort  displayed  no  discomfort  at  such  a  god- 
father. 

After  some  days  passed  with  us  the  master-workman 
went  away  satisfied  with  everybody.  We  wept  a  little 
in  saying  adieu,  Mauricet  expecting  no  more  to  see  us. 
"And  now  we  are  to  be  separated  until  the  last  judg- 

[291] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

ment,"  he  said;  "no  matter,  the  last  meeting  will  have 
been  happy.  This  is  not  so  common  a  thing,  you  know, 
that  of  meeting  after  a  long  absence  and  separating 
again  without  having  anything  to  awaken  reproach  on 
one  side  or  the  other.  You  are  on  the  highway  to  for- 
tune, child;  do  not  force  the  relays,  and  keep  on  the 
road,  looking  out  for  the  ruts.  I  leave  you  here  a  lit- 
tle Christian  who  shall  remind  you  of  me.  And  you, 
Peter  Henry,  who  write  as  easily  as  one  speaks,  do  not 
be  lazy;  send  me,  from  time  to  time,  a  letter  telling  me 
about  your  home ;  since  the  devil  has  invented  writing, 
it  is  necessary  to  serve  him  well!" 

He  embraced  us  again,  returned  to  the  cradle  of  his 
goddaughter,  to  look  at  her  sleeping,  then  departed. 

The  kind  of  presentiment  which  he  had  on  leaving 
us  was  realized;  I  never  saw  him  afterward,  though  he 
lived,  thank  God,  long  years.  From  time  to  time  work- 
men brought  me  verbal  news  with  little  presents  for 
Marianne.  The  good  mason  was,  they  said,  always 
brave  with  the  work  and  warm  for  his  friends;  the  con- 
tractor, who  had  seen  his  capability,  left  him  master  of 
his  part  of  the  business.  Mauricet  thus  grew  old, 
happy  and  useful,  without  ever  believing  that  he  had 
merited  a  better  position.  He  was,  as  they  say,  a  simple 
heart  who  had  no  idea  of  making  the  divisions  of  life 
over  again  after  the  good  God.  There  came  a  year 
when  I  heard,  simply,  of  his  sudden  sickness  and  end. 
He  had  come  to  the  building-yard  less  stout-hearted 
than  common,  had  been  drenched  by  rain  without 
quitting  work,  and,  taken  with  a  fever  in  the  evening, 
he  had  breathed  his  last  sigh  the  next  day.     Soldier 

[292] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

of  work,  he  had  died,  so  to  speak,  upon  the  field  of 
battle. 

It  was  hard  news  for  us.  Genevieve  loved  him  with 
a  special  friendship;  she  made  the  little  Marianne  wear 
mourning  for  him.  He  was  the  last  witness  of  our  youth 
who  had  gone;  he  was  our  last  relative  by  adoption 
whom  they  put  under  the  earth.  Now,  our  family  be- 
gan with  us;  our  children,  little  by  little,  would  replace 
us;  we  had  entered  the  decline  at  the  bottom  of  which 
opens  the  gate  of  the  cemetery.  Happily,  one  does  not 
linger  over  these  ideas.  Men  live,  as  the  world  turns, 
under  the  will  of  God.  It  is  for  Him  to  think  and  for 
us  to  submit  ourselves. 

Jacques  and  Marianne  grew  without  giving  us  care 
and  without  feeling  it;  it  was  the  good-humor  of  the 
house.  The  boy  already  went  among  the  workmen 
and  learned  by  looking  at  them;  the  little  girl  followed 
her  mother  everywhere,  as  if  she  needed  to  see  her,  to 
laugh  with  her,  and  to  embrace  her. 

Meanwhile,  Madame  Lefort  took  her  away  from  us 
at  times.  She,  too,  had  a  daughter,  who  had  conceived 
a  warm  friendship  for  Marianne,  and  would  only  play 
or  work  with  her.  Every  day  the  child  came  with  some 
new  present;  it  was  fruit,  a  plaything,  jewelry  even. 
More  than  one  envied  us  these  generosities;  as  for  me, 
I  was  grateful  for  them,  but  simply  because  of  the  friend- 
ship which  they  proved ;  I  was  happier  at  the  caresses 
of  our  little  neighbor  than  at  her  gifts. 

To  tell  the  truth,  Madame  Lefort  had  not  any  false 
pride.  Our  child  was  always  treated  as  the  equal  of  her 
daughter,  to  whom  even  she  often  offered  her  as  an  ex- 

[293] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

ample.  All  progressed  happily  up  to  the  time  when 
M.  Lefort  accepted  duties  which  forced  him  to  return 
to  Paris.  On  learning  that  she  was  about  to  leave 
Marianne  his  daughter  broke  into  loud  cries;  they  had 
to  make  her  many  promises ;  nothing  could  console  her. 
Finally,  the  day  before  departure,  Madame  Lefort  came 
to  us  while  we  were  at  supper;  she  was  followed  by  a 
maid-servant  who  departed  after  setting  down  a  box. 
Our  neighbor  sought  a  pretext  to  have  the  children  go 
out,  leaving  us  alone. 

"I  have  come  to  talk  with  you  of  serious  things,"  she 
said;  "do  not  begin  by  answering,  and  listen  to  me  with 
all  your  heart  and  all  your  reason." 

We  promised  her. 

"I  have  no  need  to  speak  to  you  of  the  attachment 
of  Caroline  for  Marianne,"  she  resumed;  "you  have 
witnessed  it,  and  you  have  been  able  to  judge.  My 
daughter  is  accustomed  to  live  most  of  the  time  with 
yours;  she  needs  her  to  learn  how  to  be  happy.  Since 
she  has  been  in  fear  of  separation  she  has  had  no  more 
taste  for  anything;  she  refuses  all  work  and  all  pleasure; 
one  would  say  that  a  part  of  her  life  had  been  taken 
away." 

Genevieve  interrupted  her  to  express  her  gratitude 
for  such  an  affection. 

"If  it  is  true  that  you  are  grateful  to  her,"  continued 
Madame  Lefort,  "you  can  prove  it;  your  daughter  is  to 
Caroline  a  sister  by  choice;  permit  that  she  become  a 
veritable  sister." 

"How  is  that?"  I  demanded. 

"By  confiding  her  to  us,"  she  replied. 
[294] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

And,  as  she  saw  that  we  both  started,  she  exclaimed: 
"Ah,  recollect  your  promise;  you  have  engaged  to 
listen  to  me  to  the  end.  I  do  not  come  proposing  to 
tear  Marianne  from  your  love,  but  simply  to  let  her  ac- 
cept ours.  The  question  is  not  of  taking  her  away 
from  her  family;  we  wish  to  give  her  a  second.  I  shall 
have  a  child  the  more  without  your  having  one  the  less, 
for  all  your  rights  shall  remain  to  you,  and  your  daughter 
shall  return  to  you  as  often  as  you  wish." 

Genevieve  and  I  spoke  together,  raising  objections. 

"Wait,"  Madame  Lefort  interrupted  anew;  "let  me 
tell  you  everything.  What  you  wish,  above  all — is  it  not 
true  ? — is  the  happiness  of  your  child ;  your  dearest  wish 
is  to  assure  her  a  tranquil  future?  Well,  then,  I  take 
this  obligation  upon  me.  Not  only  shall  Marianne  re- 
ceive the  same  education  as  my  daughter,  and  divide 
all  her  diversions,  but  I  engage  myself  to  assure  her 
position,  to  give  her  a  dowry.  I  have  only  one  daughter, 
and  I  am  rich  enough  to  give  myself  this  pleasure." 

The  proposition  was  so  extraordinary,  so  unexpected, 
that  we  were  troubled;  she  perceived  it,  and,  rising, 
"Reflect,"  she  said;  "I  do  not  wish  to  surprise  you;  to- 
morrow you  will  give  me  your  answer.  I  will  then  take 
measures  that  my  promises  shall  become  a  formal  and 
written  engagement." 

Genevieve  seized  her  hand  and  wished  to  say  how 
much  she  was  t-ouched  by  such  kindness. 

"Do  not  thank  me,"  continued  Madame  Lefort; 
"what  I  do  is  for  my  daughter  much  more  than  for 
yours ;  in  acquiring  for  her  a  devoted  companion  I  shall 
enrich  her.    You  will  find  in  this  box  one  of  Caroline's 

[295] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

gowns;  it  is  designed  for  her  adopted  sister.  I  feel  how 
this  explanation  has  moved  you;  I,  myself,  you  see, 
have  hardly  been  able  to  keep  from  weeping;  sol  desire 
to  avoid  a  second  talk  upon  the  subject.  If  you  decide  to' 
accept  my  proposition  bring  Marianne  to  me  to-morrow 
in  her  new  costume ;  this  shall  be  a  proof  that  Caroline 
can  regard  her  as  a  sister;  otherwise,  spare  my  poor 
child  and  me  the  grief  of  adieus." 

At  these  words  she  saluted  us  with  her  hand  and  went 
out.  I  remained  motionless  before  the  door  with  low- 
ered head  and  hanging  arms.  Genevieve  dropped  upon 
a  chair,  covered  her  face  with  her  apron  and  began  to 
sob.  We  remained  so  a  long  time,  saying  nothing, 
but  comprehending  each  other  by  our  silence.  The 
same  combat  was  going  on  in  both  our  hearts.  In 
spite  ,-of  what  Madame  Lefort  had  been  able  to  say,  we 
well  felt  that  in  confiding  Marianne  to  her  we  renounced 
the  best  part  of  our  rights,  that  the  child  changed  her 
family  and  that  we  could  do  no  more  than  hope  to  keep 
second  place  in  her  affection;  but  the  advantages  pro- 
posed were  great.  However  prosperous  for  the  time 
my  position  was  I  knew,  by  experience,  that  one  hour 
or  another  could  change  everything.  A  failure  had 
only  to  compromise  my  credit,  a  sickness  to  derange  my 
affairs,  my  death  to  expose  those  who  survived  me  to 
poverty.  What  Madame  Lefort  offered  us  was  pain- 
ful for  Genevieve  and  myself,  but  profitable  for  Mari- 
anne. If,  in  thinking  of  ourselves,  it  was  foolish  to  re- 
fuse, in  considering  only  our  daughter  it  was  perhaps 
prudent  to  consent.  This  last  idea  finished  by  persuad- 
ing us.    After  all,  parents  live  for  their  children,  not  for 

[296] 


A  JOCRNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

themselves.  Each  one  of  us  had  made  these  reflections, 
and  when  we  came  to  converse  we  had  both  of  us  reached 
the  same  conclusion.  Genevieve  wept;  although  I 
was  no  more  courageous  I  endeavored  to  strengthen 
her. 

"Let  us  be  calm,"  I  said  to  her,  in  a  low  tone,  for  fear 
of  weeping  too;  "the  question  is  not  of  weakening  but 
of  doing  our  duty.  Why  afflict  ourselves  if  our  child  will 
be  happy  ?  Rather  thank  God  for  giving  us  the  occa- 
sion of  a  sacrifice  to  her  profit;  it  is  proof  that  He  es- 
teems and  loves  us." 

However,  I  did  not  sleep  well  this  night,  and  I  got  up 
the  next  morning  at  early  daybreak ;  Genevieve  was  al- 
ready up  preparing  the  clothing  brought  the  evening 
before  by  Madame  Lefort.  She  made  no  complaint, 
expressed  no  regret;  she  had  a  brave  nature,  and  never 
questioned  that  which  she  believed  necessary.  When 
Marianne  awoke  she  began  to  dress  her  silently  in  her 
new  costume.  The  little  girl  appeared  at  first  sur- 
prised ;  she  wished  to  know  why  they  gave  her  these  fine 
clothes  of  a  demoiselle;  and  as  her  mother,  who  had 
finished  dressing  her,  wished  to  press  her  a  last  time  in 
her  arms,  she  drew  herself  away,  warning  her  not  to 
disarrange  her  fichu. 

Genevieve  gave  a  feeble  cry  and  broke  into  tears. 
I  myself  had  trembled ;  a  curtain  was  torn  from  my  eyes. 
I  took  the  child  by  the  hand,  I  made  her  quickly  enter 
the  next  room,  and  I  turned  toward  the  mother,  who 
continued  to  weep. 

"Listen,"  I  said  to  her,  in  a  low  voice,  "we  have  de- 
cided to  give  away  the  child  for  her  own  interest;  but 

[  297  ] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

we  must  know  in  wishing  to  be  useful  to  her  that  we  are 
not  doing  her  an  injury." 

"Ah,  you  have  seen,  then,  as  I  have,"  stammered 
Genevieve. 

"I  have  seen,"  I  repHed,  "that  the  fine  dress  has  made 
her  forget  that  she  is  going  to  Hve  far  from  us,  and  that 
vanity  already  smothers  her  heart." 

"She  loves  her  toilet  better  than  my  kisses,"  said  the 
mother,  redoubling  her  tears. 

"And  this  is  only  a  beginning,"  I  added.  "We  may 
by  great  sacrifice  deprive  ourselves  of  the  child  that  we 
love,  but  not  consent  to  its  spoiling.  I  do  not  wish  that 
Marianne  shall  become  richer  if  the  condition  is  that 
she  shall  become  bad.  Yesterday  we  saw  only  one  side 
of  the  thing,  that  of  interest;  there  is  another  more 
grave,  that  of  morality.  In  living  like  a  lady  the  child 
will  forget  very  quickly  whence  she  came;  who  knows 
if  the  time  will  not  come  when  she  will  be  ashamed  of 
us?  This  cannot  be,  this  shall  not  be!  Go,  take  away 
her  costume,  Genevieve,  and  remain  her  mother,  in 
order  that  she  may  remain  worthy  of  being  your  daugh- 
ter." 

The  poor  woman  threw  herself  into  my  arms  and  ran 
and  undressed  the  little  one.  We  let  Madame  Lefort 
depart  without  saying  adieu,  as  she  had  asked  us;  but 
I  wrote  to  explain  to  her  as  well  as  possible  our  position. 
She  did  not  reply,  and  we  have  had  no  more  communi- 
cation with  her.  She  could  not,  doubtless,  pardon  us 
our  refusal. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  architect  to  whom  I  owed  my 
position  at  Montmorency  continued  well-inclined  toward 

[298] 


A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

me.  He  gave  me  all  the  work  that  he  could  and  neg- 
glected  no  occasion  to  increase  my  profits.  I  regarded 
him  as  the  true  author  of  my  success,  and  I  wished  noth- 
ing so  much  as  to  see  him  prosper.  Unhappily,  he  was 
a  man  whom  pleasure  enticed.  Confident  in  his  skill 
and  his  activity,  he  believed  he  was  able  to  meet  every- 
thing, and  never  took  any  account  with  his  fancies. 
The  summer-house  which  he  had  built  had  become  the 
rendezvous  of  a  brilliant  society.  There  were  only  gala 
days  and  feastings,  without  speaking  of  gambling  and 
card-playing.  I  soon  noticed  that  his  affairs  were 
getting  embarrassed.  He  deferred  payments,  asked 
advances,  accepted  all  the  business  he  could.  His 
credit  suffered  at  first,  then  his  reputation.  They  spoke 
in  a  whisper  of  his  overcharges,  of  bribes  received.  I 
repelled  these  accusations  as  calumnies.  For  my  part 
I  had  always  found  M.  Dupre  easy  in  business,  but  loyal. 
A  Parisian  company  had  confided  to  him  for  two 
years  the  direction  of  a  brickfield  and  certain  quarries, 
the  working  of  which  had  reached,  thanks  to  his  ac- 
tivity, great  proportions.  Yet  the  enterprise,  prosper- 
ous in  appearance,  had  not  realized,  so  far,  any  profit. 
Those  interested  supposed  that  the  frequent  and  forced 
absences  of  M.  Dupre  favored  the  dishonesty  of  some 
inferior  employe.  They  thought  that  an  oversight  of 
the  details  was  indispensable,  and  proposed  this  to  me. 
Before  accepting  I  wished  to  consult  M.  Dupre  himself. 
He  appeared  embarrassed,  but  after  having  hesitated 
some  seconds,  "If  it  is  not  Peter  Henry  it  will  be  some 
other,"  he  said,  as  if  to  himself.  "'I  had  better  do 
business  with  an  acquaintance  than  with  a  stranger." 

[299] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

He  advised  me,  then,  to  accept,  but  counselled  me  not 
to  trouble  myself  beyond  measure,  to  let  things  follow 
their  course,  and  in  any  case  to  do  nothing  without  in- 
forming him. 

I  immediately  entered  upon  my  new  duty.  The 
workings  appeared  to  me  in  excellent  shape,  well 
equipped  and  vigorously  conducted.  In  seeing  the 
organization  of  the  business  I  could  not  comprehend 
why  it  had  not  given  more  satisfactory  results.  Curi- 
osity led  me  at  first  to  seek  the  cause,  then  honesty 
obliged  me  to  pursue  it.  From  the  first  examination 
I  had  detected  considerable  embezzlements.  I  suc- 
ceeded in  drawing  up  a  list  and  estimating  the  value; 
they  amounted  to  a  sum  in  the  neighborhood  of  twenty 
thousand  francs.  Troubled  by  my  sad  discovery,  I 
went  to  see  M.  Dupre,  to  whom  I  communicated  it. 
At  the  first  word  he  made  an  exclamation.  I  believed 
that  he  doubted,  and  I  put  under  his  eyes  all  the  proofs. 
When  I  had  finished  he  asked  if  I  suspected  any  one.  I 
answered  that  I  did  not ;  the  thing  had  happened  before 
my  entrance  into  the  business. 

"Then  do  not  speak  of  it  to  any  one,"  he  said,  quickly. 
''Act  as  if  you  were  ignorant  of  everything.  Remember 
you  have  seen  nothing." 

I  raised  my  eyes,  stupefied.  He  was  very  pale,  and 
his  hands  trembled.  A  terrible  ray  of  light  crossed  my 
mind.  I  recoiled  in  regarding  him.  He  carried  his 
clenched  hand  to  his  forehead  with  despair.  I  could 
not  restrain  a  cry. 

"Keep  quiet,  unhappy  one!"  he  resumed,  in  a  tone 
which  frightened   me.     "This  is  only  a  momentary 

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A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

irregularity.  My  affairs  will  reestablish  themselves 
and  I  will  make  good  the  loss  to  the  interested  parties. 
But  remember  that  the  least  indiscretion  may  ruin  me!" 

He  explained  to  me  then  at  length  the  embarrassment 
in  which  he  found  himself,  unfolded  all  his  plans  to  me, 
and  made  a  list  of  his  resources.  I  listened  to  him,  but 
without  understanding.  I  was  astounded.  I  only  re- 
gained my  presence  of  mind  when  he  asked  me  to  con- 
tinue and  not  too  closely  examine  things  for  some  weeks. 
The  sense  of  my  responsibility  came  back  to  me  then  in 
full  force,  and  I  comprehended  that  my  situation  was 
dreadful. 

"Excuse  me,"  I  replied,  stammeringly,  "I  can  ignore 
that  which  was  confided  to  others,  but  not  that  which 
has  been  put  under  my  care.  From  to-day  I  shall 
abandon  my  place  of  overseer." 

"So  they  will  give  me  another  who  will  make  the  same 
discoveries  and  who  will  hold  me  at  his  mercy,"  ex- 
claimed the  architect,  bitterly.  "I  hoped  to  find  in 
you  more  accommodation,  Peter  Henry,  and,  above  all, 
more  memory." 

"Ah,  do  not  think  that  I  have  forgotten  anything, 
sir,"  I  cried,  stirred  to  the  bottom  of  the  heart.  "I 
know  that  I  owe  all  to  you  and  that  what  I  have  be- 
longs to  you." 

He  started  impulsively. 

"Do  not  take  what  I  say  for  words,"  I  added,  more 
loudly.  "By  uniting  my  resources  I  can  have  in  a  few 
days  twelve  thousand  francs.  In  the  name  of  God, 
take  them!  You  must  endeavor  to  procure  the  rest  and 
free  yourself." 

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EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

I  wrung  my  hands.  M.  Dupre  remained  some  time 
without  responding.  He  was  himself  very  agitated. 
At  last  he  said  to  me,  with  despondency,  ''It  is  im- 
possible. I  thank  you,  Peter  Henry,  but  it  is  too  late. 
I  should  ruin  you  without  saving  myself.  You  do  not 
know  all." 

He  stopped  himself.  I  dared  not  look  at  him,  and  I 
could  not  speak.  He  resumed,  after  a  silence,  "Do 
what  you  wish.  Give  your  resignation.  All  I  ask  of 
you  is  silence  concerning  that  which  you  would  not 
have  known." 

He  took  leave  of  me  with  a  gesture,  and  I  went  away 
much  troubled. 

About  a  month  later  a  great  enterprise  was  proposed 
to  me  which  would  take  me  to  Burgundy.  What  had 
happened  with  M.  Dupre  decided  me  to  accept  it. 
The  sight  of  him  rendered  me  unhappy,  and  the  secret 
which  I  held  made  me  tremble.  In  going  away  it 
seemed  to  me  I  should  leave  that  behind.  Unhappily, 
others  came  to  know  it.  I  learned  soon  after  that  all 
had  been  discovered,  and  that  at  the  thought  of  public 
dishonor  my  old  patron  had  lost  his  head  and  killed 
himself. 


[302] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WHEN  AGE  STEALS  ON 

'  T  is  a  long  while  since  this  journal  of 
my  recollections  was  interrupted .  The 
lines  written  upon  the  last  page  have 
had  time  to  blanch;  and  I,  I  have 
whitened  too,  like  them,  without  per- 
ceiving it.  The  foundation  walls  are 
still  solid,  but  the  building  has  lost  its 
appearance  of  youth.  Genevieve  her- 
self is  no  more  what  she  was;  the  wrinkles  have  come 
at  the  comers  of  her  eyes.  Happily  what  remains  to 
her  makes  the  cheerfulness  of  the  home — good  health 
and  a  good  heart.  Besides,  if  we  decHne,  there  are 
those  near  us  who  mount  up ;  the  children  are  here  and 
will  replace  us;  it  is  for  them  now  that  the  sun  shines. 
Life  resembles  a  ball;  when  one  is  too  old  to  dance 
he  looks  at  the  others,  and  their  joy  makes  his  heart 
laugh. 

This  is  the  word  of  Genevieve.  At  each  pleasure  lost 
she  consoles  herself  with  the  pleasures  of  the  daughter 
and  of  the  young  people.  Their  good  teeth  replace  the 
teeth  which  she  lacks,  and  their  black  locks  hinder  her 
seeing  her  own  gray  hair.  People  who  live  alone  never 
know  this  happiness.  The  entire  world  has  the  appear- 
ance of  declining  with  them,  and  everything  here  below 

[303] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

ends  in  their  grave.  But  for  those  who  have  a  family 
nothing  is  finished,  for  all  begins  anew;  children  con- 
tinue even  to  the  judgment  day!  I  sometimes  asked 
myself,  in  my  unhappier  hours:  What  profit  comes  of 
living  rightly  ?  Now,  there  is  one  at  least  which  I  know 
— that  is,  the  power  of  growing  old  with  impunity.  In 
youth  it  costs  something,  at  times,  to  do  one's  duty;  the 
effort  is  dull  and  the  day  long;  but  later,  when  age  has 
cooled  the  blood,  one  gathers  what  he  has  sown.  Our 
efforts  pay  us  in  good  reputation,  in  comfort,  in  secu- 
rity, and  our  well-being,  even,  becomes  like  a  certificate 
of  honor. 

Then  the  family  is  here  which  benefits  by  our  past, 
joyfully  receiving  the  returns  of  all  our  bygone  suffer- 
ings ;  if  there  were  no  other  recompense  this  should  suf- 
fice, and  whatever  God  had  required  we  would  be  able 
to  hold  him  released.  For  my  part,  I  ask  nothing. 
Here  are  the  children,  who  have  grown  without  sick- 
ness, who  love  us,  and  who  have  good  hopes.  What 
more  could  be  asked?  Jacques  is  already  the  best 
master-mason  of  the  country;  he  will  yet  prove  that  he 
will  not  make  the  worst  contractor.  Yesterday  they 
put  the  cap-sheaf  upon  the  little  viaduct,  the  construc- 
tion of  which  was  confided  to  him,  and  the  engineer, 
who  rarely  praises,  confesses  that  it  is  well  done.  As 
for  Marianne  she  has  replaced  her  mother  for  many 
months  in  the  laundry.  Genevieve  is  sure  that  all  will 
go  well  when  she  takes  a  hand,  the  workwomen  sing 
the  louder  and  work  not  less  vigorously.  It  is  only 
the  young  who  know  how  thus  to  season  work  with 
gayety. 

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A  JOURNEYMAN'S  JOURNAL 

God  be  blessed  for  having  put  both  in  such  a 
good  way!  At  one  time  I  trembled,  for  they  also 
have  had  their  temptations,  Jacques  above  all,  who 
was  on  the  point  of  turning  up  another  road  and  escap- 
ing us. 

Jacques  has  become  the  first  workman  of  the  coun- 
try. No  one  else  measures  a  piece  of  work  at  the  first 
look,  and  the  best  accountant  can  not  make  a  calcula- 
tion quicker.  Besides  this,  he  is  a  good  companion,  easy 
at  laughing,  but  with  a  firm  hand  when  it  is  necessary; 
a  true  leader  of  men,  and  who  knows  how  to  get  along 
without  being  led. 

Marianne  is  always  the  same  good  girl,  who  sings, 
who  laughs,  who  embraces  you,  and  does  everything 
easily.  I  seem  to  see  in  her  her  mother  as  I  saw  her  the 
first  time.  Wherever  she  is,  she  is  like  a  ray  of  the  sun. 
The  great  Nicholas,  our  overseer,  has  noticed  her;  she 
is  a  brave  worker,  for  whom  we  shall  easily  find  a  place 
in  some  family;  so  I  shall  say  nothing  and  let  her  go. 
To-day  she  has  left  with  everybody  for  a  festival  at  the 
village.  This  is  why  I  am  alone,  and  this  is  why  I  have 
brought  myself  to  write  these  pages. 

These  shall  be  the  last,  for  the  rest  of  the  book  has 
served  for  accounts.  My  pen  has  got  to  the  end  of  the 
white  paper.  I  must,  then,  say  adieu  to  my  adventures 
of  the  past,  but  not  to  the  recollections  which  they  have 
left.  These  recollections,  I  have  them  here  around  me, 
living  and  transformed,  but  always  present.  First,  it 
is  Genevieve,  then  the  daughter  and  the  boy,  the  warm 
comfort  within  and  the  good  reputation  without.  When 
I  shall  have  nothing  to  relate,  you  shall  be  able  to  read 
20  [  305  ] 


EMILE  SOUVESTRE 

everything  here.  The  confessions  of  the  workman  are 
most  often  written  in  his  home  itself,  sad  or  joyful, 
comfortable  or  miserable,  according  as  he  has  taken 
his  life  by  the  good  or  bad  side;  for  with  all  men  old 
age  is  what  their  youth  and  middle-age  have  made  it. 


[306] 


CENTRAL  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
University  of  California,  San  Diego 

DATE  DUE 

,  •    i 

JAN  2  6  1981 

1 

CI  39 

UCSD  Libr. 

UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILIT^ 


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